I was straw-stirring the fresh lime soda that sat infront of me when somebody popped the age old generic question "whom do you love the most in the world?" It was more conversational and less of an inquiry anticipating a pondered over response which is probably why, the time it took to come up with one was less than heartbeat. "My brother", I said, resolute, undoubtable, like it was the most blatant truth I knew. They smiled. "You really can't live without him, can you? I smiled. And I just smiled.
I have loved a lot of people. I have loved my brother the most among them. And I have done that for so long that I don't know how not to. And maybe, it's true that I cannot live in a world that doesn't have him. But is he the reason I'm alive today? The 'no' that bubbles in my belly is no less resolute than the answer before was. I know it because I've questioned it more often than I'd like to. In the dead of the night, under the shower, over the sink, staring at the wall pressing a fist to my chest, while trying to breathe, you name it. And the answer is probably the only thing that has remained a constant over the years.
I love people because I want to. I love my brother the most because I choose to. But I'm alive today because someone chose me. I'm alive because my father refused to give up on me. Not even when I did. Especially when I did.
And I hope, for the life of me, I hope that it's atleast okay, even if a little selfish if the one you will die for and the one you will die without aren't one and the same.
However badly articulated, this is the most honest, most personal thing I've ever written. And I hate myself so much for ever wording this line of thought. And even more for posting it. But I also hope I never delete this, this ill-written thing.
Iam a mottled flower's petal, A broken wind chime, The White translucent decaying roots of your favourite plant, An unfurled golden leaf, An old page of a dusty book, A droplet sleeping in the nodes of a leaf, You see me everyday But its not likely that you Recognize me everyday, And that's my power.
I haven't been so hungry as before the kitchen is warm and dull as mine, cold pretty raindrops on the window so as my words have drowned in a teacup of rose imperial tea, tears and flour dispersed in my soft skin page as I pray for clover and spring buds brewed to a healing power hoping to replenish with stillness my yesterday's dirt, there's a shadow of melancholy on the kitchen floor a mounds of old recipes yellowing with ages on the counter, a veil of gray covers the stagnant silence as nobody dines with me, only the clock ticks and tocks
I haven't been so hungry as before that even the kitchen walls feed me with emptiness.
deep in stars lying twisted torsos for some reason don't fall into black hole. attics filled with black emotions dreams filled with empty colours covering pain with ink swirling around choco candies and laying in fields of cotton bars some rant about past, some predict the future, words spill down like meteor shower from high above some spirits stuck in soul shop get to read them like a daily magazine.
/how would blood flow out from those cuts, them, bloodless, spill ink, instead.
gleaming onto damp skies, empty colours ponder to get refills, till today, which are reported to be missing. /
reasonable souls get drenched in golden elixirs dripping directly from the moon like cherry blossoms find way to some graves despite those cheeks rising beneath those coffins, they say, moonbows tangled in their hairs dragging their silver cloak dusting words onto grass walking barefoot to reach the moon.