• hopenotes__ 89w

    I was a toddler yawning in the warmth of poetries, taking clumsy steps to the literature copula and trying to grasp the galaxy of metaphors with tiny hands of knowledge. Steadily I started building my abode in the writer's paradise and from plucking out stars from the metaphor galaxy to merging my meteors of metaphors in it, I started walking.

    I stood there in the dark yet bright street and admired my new abode. Suddenly I crashed with another writer. My twinkling eyes now rested on this girl who had a charismatic glow of metaphors on her cheeks and a wrist tinkling with the sound of high vocabularies. She smiled at me and handed some tokens of elements of literature in my hands. With the token, I was left with a doubt whether I would ever be able to become like her. Few days flipped by and I walked my hungry feet which wanted to devour the streets yet left undiscovered to them.

    I met hypocrites which made me ask am I hypocrite too. Their writings hissed in my ears "writers are hypocrites because they write things they can never become". I met owners of dark abysses which made me crave self-destruction. I met angels stitching magic to halos. I met jovial eyes hiding red scratches on their wrist. I passed by cosy cottages radiating warmth rising from the fireplace where numerous poetries were burnt in the name of writer's block.

    Days passed by and slowly my abode started turning into a shop. Writings which were written for survival were now being hanged behind a classy window covered with a wooden border which though was painted with aesthetic edits but on the inside was being eaten by decayed morals of self-appreciation. The more the crowd gathered around the write-up, the more it was perceived to be a masterpiece. On the days when the inscribed metaphors weren't patted with enough appreciation, self-doubt used to slowly get inside my blanket and numb my feet and hands with torturous frigidness. One winter someone broke inside my house and stole lines from my favourite writeup snoring under my pillow. I didn't open the 'shop' that day. One summer someone spitted foul words on my window and I felt like burning with the burning sun. I folded my legs, occupied a space on the roof and looked at my moon. The moon contained the imagery of my journey. That day I asked questions and questioned the answers.

    "It was never meant to be like this. I wrote for myself. I wrote to weave barriers to the things which depress me. Since when did I allow my source of survival to choke me. Writing is an art. We need to experience it and let it soak in every atom of ours. Just like you stumble with people who want to push you down, the writing world wouldn't be an exception. You shouldn't lay your heart bare because you think negative winds can't blow where words reside. Just because the writing world seems different from the real world doesn't mean it's different. You would find all types of people there too. You would feel negativity brewing from that cup too which has 'Be positive' written on it with the p slightly losing its colour. What it takes is you to be mentally prepared. You have to be"

    Next day, poetry was sung in the happiness of the return of a wandering soul to its abode.

    ©hopenotes__ & ©_still_in_mess

    Ps- lately a lot has been going here at mirakee. Self-doubt, fake accounts, people who breathe just to demotivate others and so much. But don't forget why you came here, why you started writing. Don't blur your purpose in the mist of negatives. Positivity is that sweet where bees of negative would linger. Shoo them away. Clear your way. No one gets to demotivate you.

    The last paragraph is an amalgamation of my and. @_still_in_mess 's message. Special thanks to her that she brought up this topic and I was able to collect words.
    Thank you jhaan❤

    Quick bg edits. So not that up to the mark.

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