An unknown song plays on the radio, with broken signals faraway from the balcony ,where I stand. There is no nostalgia smelling in the air, instead there is nothingness breathing into me.
I have stopped feeling, stopped loving, stopped hating, stopped crying
but I do smile ,
a little
To myself,
To the skies,
To the Sunflowers in me.


12:00 am,
And now the radio unconsciously plays my favourite song. But since a few days, I don't sing along.
My life wasn't meant to be a luxurious perfectly trimmed garden with pruned roses ,Lilies, and colorful butterflies.
My life was meant to be an art.
I wanted it to be an art,
With grounds full of mosses, wildflowers
Scattered garlands, mismatched hues,
Ruined paintings,
Incomplete poesies,
Burnt songs,
Broken pallates.

I have changed.
Changed exorbitantly just in a few nights.
I stopped whining about my broken wings or bloodless tears. I stopped thinking before writing anything. I stopped talking.
But I am still kind,
To myself,
To the skies,
To the Sunflowers in me.

Writer,
They called me.
A title ? I am not confined to a title.
Words are just a material in this materialistic world. And I never belonged here. I was never good with words, and I wouldn't be.
Perhaps I don't want to be either.
I have always belonged to the spaces between my words or the thoughts at the back of my mind, to whom mere words won't do any justice.
I sighed and
looked at the sky,
Because,
I have already stopped writing these days,
I stopped singing along with the glitches on the radio,
But I do read,
A little
To myself
To the skies,
To the Sunflowers in me.

- Ananya || Art, ahh what a word.
©sighsandskies


@_firefly you asked me to write. I wrote it without thinking, I don't know hows it ?
#annwn