• hafeezhmha 73w

    I wonder what words do...

    Do they sit beside me
    every night and sing
    lullabies of love?

    Or Do they sit beside
    me every night and
    weep at my sorrows?

    Funerals for my thoughts.
    That's what they are.

    A farewell that sometimes makes me happy and sometimes burrows my happiness under the thick sheet of melancholia. Crestfallen braces call my name when i put the grey curtains down. Every night when I'm about to fall asleep, i hear the void coughing. I look for it beneath my bed, beside my orange lamp and even in my half wedged drawers. But the voice seems to move further, further beyond my reach.

    I hate that i no longer hanker for the mornings like i used to. Everyday i wake up more tired and more sick. My heart longs for drowsy summer evenings and rainy afternoons. It longs for peace that i once had when my mind ran filter-less on the clouds of a shimmering world. It longs for some fresh breath, out and away from the suffocating crowds. It longs more for something less.

    Once a day, nostalgia overtakes my vision and i fail again and again to see what is in front of me. The past seems like a sweet fruit grown on a plum tree near a grassy orchard, alluring and enticing. Hope becomes fragile and delicate, it soon dilutes into the void and renders me with a home devoid of anything except it.

    Sometimes it is a hassle to write. So i read. I end up reading writers that are well versed in narrating tales. But reading them doesn't fill my heart. Maybe it never will...I was on a train which was heading far away from my home. It took my heart some courage to sit down and pick up a book again, but i did. I started reading it. It was not a book of an adept writer, but of a writer with a shattered soul. Broken, like me. Her words screeched what my heart crumpled to convey. So I read it again and again until i could no longer hold my tears and i wept and then I left the train with a wet handkerchief and weepy hisses and ended up around a park. I sat on a bench which was beneath a pine tree. The weather was warm, it was as if winter had just departed and spring had just arrived. The trestle was slightly tepid too, as if someone was just sitting there and left it a few minutes ago. I glanced at the sky and wondered if the writer of the book felt the same way i did.

    "Maybe emotions cannot be read like words nor can they be disposed like books" I thought..

    That night, i could feel the void shrinking and collapsing like a balloon which was punctured with a tiny toothpick. Slow and steady it deflated. It felt more painful than ever but i knew that this pain didn't signify destruction. It signified healing. I just knew it.


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