Particles of sand remain in your fist till the time you hold on to them with a gentle touch. The second you clench it, is the second they all slip from the minute gaps of your forceful fingers.
So is the tragedy of love. The day you have to hold on to it a little harder, is the day you can feel it fade a little more. Love can never be compelled. It must flow naturally. Force can never make love stay. Neither in the doers heart, nor in the receiver's.
Smiles are costly and I'm not much of a bargainer, so I pay with blood for the happiness you see plastered on my face, because pretence is the new reality these days.
Words come cheap to those who dwell in bars with a broken heart spilled on their clothes, like the permanent ink of sorrows, tattooed on their skin.
Kindness echoes fiction, many say a fairytale of our time, for children to believe that poverty is a monster which can be defeated.
Hope is a graveyard kept alive with the flowers, stranded strangers leave behind, perfumed with guilt and amnesia as they forget everything but the scriptures of faith
Life, a beautiful lie and death, a hurtful truth they say, so when I've lived my lies as truth, bury me with the smiles I held dear, nail them to my coffin, so that whenever they pass me by, they will know pretences are opaque promises not meant to enter afterlife.
Bury me with words, immortal in an honest love lost, so their story may live in my epitaph, for the stranger kissing goodbye can believe love is the strongest force of all.
Bury me with kindness in the way you lay down my body, for your faintest touch of warmth may keep me warm, if my soul finds solace in the broken hut you walk by daily, but never stopped to spare a morsel or a penny.
Bury me with hope to forgive yourself if you forget, the moles on my body or how my lips were bow shaped, for eyes are but illusions and faith is in the love, in your heartbeats that rage.
For the uncertainty and certainty meet like old friends in the aftelife, bury me with both, a taste for life fulfilled and an adventure yet to take.
I have been thinking about writing to my best friend, it's been a while since we wrote to each other on the yellow postcards that travel through places to reach our door. I love the certain calm that it carries, where you don't have to worry about instant replies. You can take your time, one word after another with your shitty handwriting to make it personal. You are not doing it for the sake of it, but for the human connection that it holds. A sense of belongingness in a world that is always in a rush.
Sometimes you know what to write on the places left on the card for a destination, but you don't know what to talk about. Sometimes you know what to talk about but don't know the destination. Isn't it always a struggle? Not just waking up every morning but trying to find that human connection that pushes you through the days till you collapse into a night?
It's been ages since we talked, we aren't the same people back when it all made a lot of sense in a simpler world. I think, when people drift out of this edge of familiarity, you feel alienated. It is like, getting thrown out of this world to another where everything that you touch wither away. Do we belong in the wrong worlds? A reality that isn't quite ours?
It is such a painful thing, to share the pain of another when the night falls heavy on your shoulder. How do you tell someone that you want to die? Not because you are sad, but because sometimes it makes no sense as to why you wake up to fall asleep again. We walk in and out of these contradictions of death and living, trying to come up with some lines to keep holding on for a few days, few more letters that arrive with the summer rain.
I don't remember what you feel about rain, whether you hate the way it falls on your skin or loves the way how it drowns you to the depths. But there is something so familiar about it, with every fall burning your summer skin, you feel like a human. It is unfair of us to pour our sorrows away into the late-night conversation when you don't know who walks on the thin line of blues. Yet, on some nights, it feels safe to drown in the open ocean with a familiar face to pull you out to the surface.
There is a constant war on our minds, whether we want to be found or to be lost. It is hard to figure out where this journey is taking us, yet we walk like we know the destination. Like, letters. You don't know when they will reach your door, but it makes you feel connected when it arrives with stories you never knew from worlds that you've never seen.
We yearn for this connection, a connection that is not tied to the binary strings but takes its time to reach you. In another world, in another time, pulling you back to the edge of familiarity that feels so personal.
We are these blurry lines, fading shadows, mere outlines of remembrance. Lost between light and dark on the edge where the world falls out of its existence. How long are we going to be lost, before we collapse into mere stories about the part of us that always wanted to be found, always wanted to return?
I woke up listening to my husky barking again. Yeah, I don't own any still, but it was all due to last night when I was loaded with dog videos like as usual. I thought I could make out a fine day, concentrating on books, but I ended up seeking my mom's lap to cry on.
It was bad. Really bad.
That two strings that pulled my brain from both the sides, I wished I would have gone to school but I hated it there too. Keeping mum all the time, cause I broke up with all the friends I know.
But she was there for me, my mom. I felt a different kinda love suddenly. She advised me but I didn't get bore, it was strange, a strangeness in my familiar love. Of course I love her.
Shift the drops of love from bleeding to blood Sliding to the temporary leave to fresh leaves Script the assets on humane , no stake to stake Shiver into the phrases of simile never scatter the reasons to smile
Hug the silence of vast , but never melt the gracias glacier Handle the equilateral hands holding pinch of stunned stages Hire the happiness not from the monetary of the harmed cotton Hypnotize the unbalanced centres piece per piece for the desired humble peace
Look back dialling the codes of transportation once trees exist Lavender logging back into the phases yet crushed of the self Lusture of the non - metallic pendant bearing the plates of expensive aurum Laborious flies donating while the queen consuming the hexagons with tantrum
Resonance of ruptured rendered radio rested on dusted drawer Revolved back on the sake of the breaking breath breakthroughs Rounded somewhere in river overlooking the tips of grounded generations Right behind the humanity coating technologies over the love of era
That deafening silence reaching the crevices of my heart again. Your hold slipped away, my beautiful existence slipped right under me. What is this thing called love? Does it exist? I've lost the foundation of it with you. It's said that the pain is in the heart, which is to the left. But I feel a sinking pain, right in the middle of my chest. It feels like the centre of my soul. They say time heals it. But it doesn't. There's a hole in my heart which is concealed by the people I'm surrounded by. And I pretend. I pretend because I am afraid if I accept it, it will haunt me again. There's a loneliness that exists within me. Of which I never knew before you came. Lost myself with you.
Another love came. Loved me even more. Felt relieved. Felt the joy. A scintillating one. Oh my naive heart! Something happened. The trust was gone. Irrevocable.
Time. Give it time. Give yourself time.
Who am I? What do I want?
Something came back, a part of the love I believed in. A beautiful soul. Which felt like my own. A few similarities with you. All the good ones, I believe. But I kept my guard on. Kept my heart safe. Kept falling more and more. He slipped away. Did I do something? Did he do something? Was it the proximity he needed? Or was it an excuse? What was it that was needed and why I didn't do it? I moved on. The nights grew darker. And the deafening silence crept in on me again.