There's a rough patch in my window sill, crooked and warped, that scratches out a bit from my fingertips when I run them over it. This part of the wood creaks, when the open window panes thrashes against it with the November wind and grows cold and bleak when February approaches over the world outside my room. I can still remember the four year old girl who would clutch onto her teddy when the sky thundered down clattering the glass panes. For the next eleven years, this girl grew up into me, climbing eleven steps down from a label called happiness, for growing up turned out to be an empty syllable unless you got brave stories to tell and tragedies to make your readers snivel. I'm not a self-ruinous girl when I say that I like the simpering rough bit of my story. That wooden coarse patch, which kept widening, because thunder would keep shaking my panels in every June; most days reminds me of people who garb up their gashes out among the crowd; sometimes because they are proud to have them and sometimes because they are tired of hiding their regrets. I, with my shaky hands and grief hewn gardens, effortlessly fall with into the second kind. Chafes and frore bruises tinges up my thighs and at the end of the day, my skirt runs too short to conceal them. My sleeves have grown weary for I keep pulling them down to my clammy palms when the elderly lady next door ask me how being a young and carefree teen feels like. I don't know how to answer her when I can feel the oxymorons fading away from my lungs, when there's a tale left shrieking feebly behind my tanned lines. I've heard them wittering about prologues and epilogues at every station but who tells you about the story in the middle that whittles the characters throughout? Who tells you about the colors that go astray from the rainbows when they start fading away behind the deceiving smiles? So is it okay to fall in between the lines of 'forever's and badly buttered eulogies? I think not, for all your childhood has been a borrowed lie if they never told you that maturing into adulthood is all but happy endings coursing through your unscathed veins.
Mama, can you feel the aching in my eyes when you tell me that teen girls of my age do not sit in their bedrooms all day? Can you feel my febrile bones rattling and trembling when you ask me why on some of the days I can't stop eating away the snacks from the fridge until there's nothing left inside? You don't know it but I do. A dog of a grief is sitting beside me, gnawing away at my sides and I'm losing weight and swaying, distorted and misshaped, underneath all the norms and the hypothesis that maturity is demanding from my conscience. Most nights, I feel like a fish out of water among a rout of strangers and that my gills are too thick for the oxygen in the air.
There are those intricate creases in the pages of my diary, smelling faintly of wilted rose petals; for I was taught to smell good to be of other's appeal. What about my opinions and desires mama? Doesn't matter because I've to shrink if that's what it takes to fit in. Mama told me that my story shouldn't have broken bits stuck at random places. And, like it must be after all these rough fragments, growing up didn't turn like to be like the young sky or like the promises made on a wedding night. Everything lead to something, while circumstances and wise people who talk in wise words kept complicating a part of my aging I shouldn't have seen. I know that this could have been done the easy way for I can see that I'm not blooming into sunflowers anymore. The folds in my palms are growing deep and scarred with all the tragedies that I keep squeezing inside to muffle their screams. I have started seeing the sky in blues and purples and greys; in colors that are runing way too deep under my skin. No, I'm not a tradegy falling apart bit by bit when I say that I want to fall for the simple things that are least loved. I fall for them because they deserved to be loved. Mama? When the sunbeams filters in through my curtains, bringing a new day, I wish you knew that you could have moulded my soul the softer way, I want you to know that lately your daughter hasn't been sleeping any well.
P.S. I'll write you a letter about 'someday's and 'maybe's because I know nothing lasts forever, not really.
I read a prose piece back at my high school about a prince who was all happy in his lifetime, there was a big wall in his palace to shield him from the sorrows of this world,
So he couldn't in his lifetime saw anyone suffering Neither he felt any pains and miseries of this world for being unaware of a world beyond his vision which is suffering
But after he left his mortal being and as a statue he was being sculpted in the middle of his city he could see everything and for the first time he felt pain and this left him to intospect that he failed as a human
It filled him with void and he felt to redeem And he decided to help some beings as per his might
The story goes like how he helped three human beings with the help of some birds I think I just couldn't remember the whole prose but the gist is that
Are we realizing the significance of being born and our lives' purposes?
One and foremost of them is being a human for not just human but for one and all
It leaves me numb when I see this world has bifurcation into so many worlds, unequal and unjust
Might be we can't help all Sometimes we can't even help ourselves too
But yet as long as we are breathing we can try to be human and be humane to this world around
To share Lord's light
For all would not get an opportunity as that prince of my prose who after his mortal life tried to share some lights in others' darknesses
Till we are here
Let's be humans and try to make it one world just and equal for all beings alike.
We all are agitated souls Living in the world of incessant materialistic demands A world resembling to a glass terrarium Sealed by our limited life duration The walls are made up of our desires Inside which we all are confined We get tempted by those fanciful desires But we forget that desires are neverending and fragile just like the glass wall of the terrarium It looks really alluring when looked from outside But it's baffling enough to make one wonder about their mere existence Before we are able to understand our creation inside our glassy world, Our senescence comes and now all that left is our love. Our love for loved ones, the joyful and sad moments all boils down to the memories The memories we imprint on canvas like minds of people we met on the journey that has been finished now. The terrarium is still beautiful, for the gazer who is away from tangling ropes of this world.