No, she doesn't write about the things that softly snatch the breath from your lungs and tickle your soul. She writes about things that make breathing an excruciatingly painful ordeal to carry out.
No, she doesn't write about the bright undead stars that adorn the black sky, giving it its beautiful essence. She writes about the horrors that lurk in the shadows and manifest themselves on moonless nights.
No, she doesn't write about the ocean waves that grace the feet of the lone soul on the seashore. She writes about the sea of blues, where once you dip your foot in the water, it ends up pulling you into its bosom and holding you hostage there forever.
No, she doesn't write about the cool breeze that kisses the sweat dripping on the back of the neck on a hot summer day. She writes about harsh winds that show no mercy to the homeless wanderer, bereft of any shelter, trying to survive the cold winter nights.
No, she doesn't write about the smiles borne out of the weightlessness of a happy heart. She writes about the pain confined to the periphery of eyes laden with the emptiness of a desolated island.
Yet, here I am, reading on and on, absorbing every single word that she bleeds from the entrails of her soul. Grappling with the words she exhales, just so I can steal them and bury them in the crevices of my heart. I'm told I should be deliberately seeking out words of pleasure instead of accidentally running into words of pain, all the while going around in circles. I realize I'm doing the exact opposite, but trust me, the shadow of her words holds me in a vice grip and I find a strange comfort in that powerlessness; I feel I'm home, finally. They say words of pleasure send the heart into a frenzy but I've come to understand that its nature is only ephemeral. But in the asylum of her words, I've learnt that words of pain comfort the soul in ways that challenge the mortality of time itself. And I know for a fact that I'm not the only one to learn that. It is for that very solace, I wander aimlessly, waiting for another moment to stumble upon her words. It may be wishful thinking on my part, but if it's even remotely possible, I want every drop of ink from her quill to find its way to my epitaph.
This is to all the amazing writers here on Mirakee and my personal favorites @whitewings@krishnega and @iamjass. Mirakee has always been a home and it's because of the many brilliant souls who write here. Many a time, I've been able to find happiness in the words that they've written. On days when everything looked dark and gloomy, it was here that I found light. All of that because of the words penned down by these writers. This is an ode to them, thanking them for pouring their heart out on this beautiful platform. _______________________________________________________________
P.S. I didn't find a picture I wanted to represent this. So I just sketched this.
Numbness now forbids the fingers To bang their captive heads Against a keyboard of guilty letters. Each one cowers in the fear Of being tapped and slotted As a defaulter of expression And winces to every touch Of a ruthless inspiration.
Graves seem to have started walking Below my still feet Whispering to my toes The ode of the withering roses. Bits of a rotting shroud seem To stick to my toenails Like the black nail paint Turning odourless once it dries. I may try to rub it off With the remaining glint in my eyes But it seems more than the spark, The shroud has fallen for the dark That my eyeballs fail to hide.