To The poet who was unable to write about his pain
Like a beautiful canvas painted by a painter, your alluring poetries composed by those mesmerizing words are also portraits which fill the blankness of this page.
However, filling the emptiness of the page doesn't help you fill the emptiness inside your soul.
Within the spaces of those enchanting pieces, which have sometimes been referred to as masterpieces, is where your unwritten emotions reside. Alas, everyone reads the words but no one reads between the words.
You wish to write about the storm you are weathering inside each day but you fail to do so because you think people will judge you. You are scared of being left out merely because you decided to talk about your pain.
It isn't like you haven't made any attempts. The first attempt was writing diary entries. Actually, it was the only attempt.
You started writing the first entry in the cold night of December. It was a stormy night; it was as if the battle inside your mind had come alive. You wrote your heart out that night. It wasn't a diary entry of that day you penned. It was the diary entry of many other days you couldn't write since you weren't courageous before.
Soon, after forty-five minutes, your diary entry wasn't an entry anymore. It was a rant.
The next night you wrote a few lines. Though you wrote less. Your quill had started to dry up for it was left open, exposed to air. Maybe you couldn't write because your fingers were still sore from the night before. Maybe, because of the quill.
Maybe, it was the pain in the previous page that was standing as a barrier in front of you, preventing you to write.
You were devoid of any temptation to scribble.
You're unable to comprehend this unwillingness you're feeling for you thought that writing would help you but you feel more hollow now. You broke through the feeling which prevented you to write about the agony but you were put into the stage of acceptance.
Acceptance of reality for a poet like you, who had beautifully false clichés in his sentences, is an ironical situation.
Your masterpieces, you realize, are just mere lies alongwith deceptions, and you've been feeding those lies to your sweet readers.
Aren't you stuck in a contradictory maze? It's like each path opens a door to the right but it's not the right path, instead the correct one was the path to your left whose door was closed and you never wanted to open it.
You kept walking inside open doors.
The diary entry was the first attempt. It was the only attempt. Till now.
I write to you I can see it's leading me somewhere. My chest feels lighter. Maybe I didn't need to vent out to a diary, but to myself. I spoke to myself, battled with my thoughts inside. I just needed a platform to vent. And I got it.
I rant to you, on this page of my diary.
The pain is a little bit less. I don't feel good, but yes better. And I think that's better, of course. Right. Right?
From The poet who is finally able to write about his pain
I'm obssessed with letters to people and things. Don't blame me, I find depth in mundane things and simple people.