I often wonder about the ways I would die. Would it be due to depression taking toll as it slowly gnaws at my insides or would it be due to the poison of my anxiety that will intoxicate my heart enough to switch it off.
But maybe these won’t be the cases; It would probably be the half written poems singing me to death or the unfinished endings of some stories that will come creeping in the dead of night to slay me in my sleep.
As a writer it would be unfair to die because of a depressed mind or a weak heart for I haven’t been fair to my writings my whole life. In all probability, my own words would choke me to death.
Picture clicked by me. All words written by me.
Thankyou writersnetwork for the kind repost. I can’t explain how happy I am.
My voice cracked at the sight of you walking towards me, soaked in rain. My heart raced, when you uttered those words coated with love and care. My soul melted, when you pulled me in for a hug and planted a kiss on my forehead. My body shaked, when I saw you bruised and despondent. I cursed them for pointing a gun towards my man. But you scolded and said “It's not just them, we're all fighting for the same. Our country to protect”. And I thanked god for letting you return, alive and strong, to your daughter and home, once again.