Tired is a synonym where overbearing are the chores and normal actions need extraordinary efforts. The muscles strain to the last end of the finish line, but situations extended another 100m blaming it on luck.
Dusted from every direction I walked with glass slippers of today's reality, shining throughout the way to the past.
The jealousy was imminent among the memories, but father felt proud of his daughter; a sacred rendezvous of affection.
Paddling with wooden legs, the river seems to be far fetched in its entirety. I touched the shore after an eternity yet legs gave away under the weight of rotten wood and today I wanted to throw the glass slippers away and watch the sunset with the memory of my complete self. -------------------
The horror is unfazed by misshapen faces, an obtuse of blood drawn from the left brow to right cheek. The scar is a skeleton that couldn't make it to museums, an abundance of bones but still a no show.
Stairs accumulate dirt that ransacked in every direction, while opened drawers accrued eyeballs with open eyes.
The history was recorded by the brain that was blind sighted and all that could be restored was senseless thoughts and deaf ideologies.
Sand trapped inside a senile hourglass, getting too old without the concept of time, while ears lay scattered surrounding, but none could move to reverse the polarities of motion.
The sound was magnified by 90 decibels, and mouths couldn't shut about the inconvenience it caused. -----------------
The season is here standing at the doorstep waiting to knock its entrance. It started pouring densely and the roof provided a bumpy landing to the stumbling raindrops.
No one was hurt but the faint pattering gave the impression of a conspiracy brewing, just enough of a whisper. One which lacked mobility.
The grime and cinder that settled on dormant places, wasted away their days without second thoughts of ever being sacked by the broomstick. The droplets fell without having to worry about places, partitioned in the sky, whereas the ground knew no distinction between a storm or a drizzle.
The downpour started invading cracks and tracing the leakages that were fixed with cheap substitutes of temporary relief.
The dampness is all that the droplets felt before and after falling, moisture was that was left after and before the thunder rumbled again with another visit. ------------------
The lines are faulty in the sense that everything is stable within the periphery vision of an eye having a cataract. The line is drawn parallel just opposite to the grazing cattle and its nonstop chewing quirk.
It takes time for the line to extend itself and the food takes twice the time of languid chewing to get properly digested.
With certain peculiarities attached on its back, the line isn't following the normal regime. As the vision gets bad from trying to strive for clarity over the horizon, the curve is worse than perpendicular bends. Somewhere near the blurry future, the sight lost its limb.
Now the line has no one peeking over its habitual misunderstandings. Freedom is cherished in every literal way roving about in all the directions.
The extensions now follow their own mind, and the feud is evident. After the surgery, all the sight witnessed was a tangled mess. -------------------
The smooth-edged marbles wait in still silence, for a movement to happen at any fortunate moment. It's hard to regard motion and still be motionless that time within the thin outlines is a perfidious confidant.
Leaves are hard to hurt when falling is another harmless motion, marbles have plenty of time trapped in their narrow clefts.
Spacing out with eyes open, not passing even a careless blink, stranded in an anesthetized sleep.
They carved out another timeless statue from a metamorphosed limestone, while the years chipped away from the perpetual placidity; a parody of life having an inveterate absence of motion or time. ------------------
Another day, another structural maze; an astounding consequence. The leaves can't hold off the growing number of water drops in their arrogant field. That's why the drops formed a truce with their surrounding kins and started treading south. A mass suicide.
I lack manners when opinionated humdrum of wheezing mongers came to wind up storms in my personal resting solitude. I spit insults in no spitting areas, whom did the saliva belong to? Distilled water without any proof of germs.
Yesterday the rebellious knuckles wanted to engage in revolutionary riots. And so I provoked them against an ordinary built humorless wall, bending their will and lacking common sense. A swollen reward emerged and the pain has matured to an unlearned lesson. -------------------
The clouds chuckled eerily crackling quiet thunders and penetrating flash. The sky isn't much fond of dusty clouds as an acquaintance but they always come with a promise to leave the perimeter and circle elsewhere.
The rains are selfish and merciless on the rooftops and on every surface that has become stiff from dense stubbornness. Smacking the firewood that is to be staked and hung a guilty death, eliciting erratic movement of flailing legs.
Myths and tales have been prophesied about the smile extending from the far end of one side to the other. The synonym born of the red smile now bears no nomenclature. ---------------------
The first Borns coo under the warmth of sunlight ballet. Basking in just enough to burn the already scarred demolitions. Still, there's pity waiting to be stepped on by bare feet walking tragedies.
The second born is indulged in dissecting the bricks laying on the sidelines. No footwear to shield from, the enraged soil absorbs heat becoming flames themselves. The burnt soil darkens in self-destruction, dry twigs lay there to extend comfort until night arrives.
There were no more reproductions as the concrete roads swallowed the womb of soil under their patriarchal stretches. The blackened soil harmless to the politics of summer, while at the other end dust settles lovingly over the exposed teenage saplings. -----------------
I'm a sorry world that seeks redemption in every curve of eyes that look upon a dream but cannot foresee the mud just one step further. Sorrows are overrated in this world, the ideals witnessed the murder of dreams at their feet.
I'm a sorry world that judges the determined movement of hands, the unsure clamped fingertips, and the dry lips thirsty to speak. The steps are measured and compromised when the litter starts to cross the line of intimacy.
I'm a sorry world and yet there are no apologies I can bake from the core of my heart. There are faces with mouths clamoring at the onsite of burned leeches. There are bodies with no specific organs and the hairs detaching themselves to love a functional mind. -----------------
I know I don't do letters until they are the treasures to be preserved in the syllabic chests of my poetries, but no poetry of mine could sing truths without metaphorical rhythms, and truth isn't a song, but an echo, that fades sooner or later, yet somehow stays trapped along the insides of mind.
Meeting you was the most beautiful thing that happened in my life, like stumbling over a rainbow knowing I only deserved storms. I was too tired of being pricked by thorns, and while I was only looking for a leaf to wrap around my wounds, a rose landed to beautify my scars.
It's amazing how we know each other so well. We know parts of each other like the lyrics to our favourite song, and yet it somehow makes way into every new playlist we plan. It's beautiful, being with you.
Our love is perfect, like the constant constellations, the moon that never dims, the trees that may lose some leaves in the autumn but just a few seasons away to being back to normal. Being loved by you, was magical, but then, my eyes landed over imperfections, and I can't unsee them.
Just having a glimpse of him was such a funny feeling, something so ordinary, I could have forgotten another instant, but I didn't. It was like finally having a clear sky, and awaiting the unexpected, blotting the blank canvas, and still staring into beauty. While my scars always weighed my soul down, he crowned them to have my head held up high.
We know just the prologue to each other's autobiographies. Keen to read more of each other, reading into more than reading about. And even if we are not each other's favourites, we remain at the bookshelf, with a rose, the fragrance pulling every time. It's raw, being with him.
All I know is love isn't meant to be perfect, it's meant to be everything you hate, yet somehow being unable to stay away. It's like the flower bookmarking your favourite page, no matter how old it gets or how bad it stinks, you keep it. Because it was never just petals and fragrance for you, it was the feelings and the memories. Loving him is like an adventure, I stumble at times, but the fall is worth the flight ahead.
I don't know how to end this letter, or even this bond, but full stops are better than blank pages.