*a conversation between me and …….(read to know)*
“Are you human?”
“The soul never gets old. Especially when its the enigmatic one. But, the body does.”
“But, what is with you? Why do you have to act like you’re not broken?”
“Look at me. Look for the deepest corner of my eyes. The lingering depths like the tides of an ocean. And tell me what more do you see there?”
“I see nothing, but a hope. The hope of not drowning in them and be at large.”
“That’s how I am. Nothing at all at the first place; and a hope to people at my last.”
“That’s what hope means to you. Right?”
“Yes. Because in the end, when I would be lying on my death-bed, and I wouldn’t be able to utter a word, and I wouldn’t be able to hold a pen even, I will do the best possible thing that I could. I will remove all the hatred from my heart. I will forgive all those people who did not give me a chance. And I will cleanse my soul, making it purely and amicably at peace.
So that when my Lord asks me what good have I done, the least I could say is:
“I took good care of my soul. I did not let hatred dissolve in me. I did not let the dirt in. And now I am returning it back to you with no moulds.”
And as it was prophesied, I will return back to dust. And that my dear, would be the end of my story, where there’s no ending: neither happy, nor sad.”
“Why do you ever have to act like you love me when you never desired anything in return?”
“When I was born my Mom always believed in me of being something more. Even if she did not have me to learn all the concepts of how to respond to people’s adore and gentle kisses.
*I wasn’t even aware of people licking my cheeks at the age two you see.*
But, through all these years I have seen her sacrifice her desires, her wishes and her problems even, just to give priority to ours. Her selflessness is a thing that’s beyond the nature of a women in general.
But, one thing she was always sure of was:
“No matter what the situation be, I will never reciprocate people’s faults to themselves. Never.”
But, somewhere between being worthy of love and trying to be accustomed to love I realized,
“I was made to love; and not to be loved.”
And that’s why my life was blurred, just as this voyage of mine, that does exactly, like how I do, as there is nothing clear from the outside, because from the inside I know,
“There is always a clear sky, beneath the dusty clouds.”
*a very short story*
“Something isn’t right,” he wrote in his diary with a blunt strike at the end as the night drew closer to her savior.
That’s when he realized the gush of blood through his subconscious. And he almost fainted landing in a world of ravages.
He almost faded within his dilemma of galvanised dreams where he entered the room and held her as she lost control.
He consoled her heart to find the risky attributes of its beats and caress it to sleep.
But, he forgot. He forgot what it takes when everything is at stake. He forgot that he was slowly and slowly losing her.
The more she underwent the phenomenon of drowsiness, the more she lost her subconscious, her very existence.
He knew what she did not. And she was helpless. For it was all but a moment, an instance of life she had left in her.
Seeing his mother take her endeth few breaths, he found himself lost.
But, who cared if he was lost.
Was any one waiting on him?
There was no one who knew he existed. Because the ravisher of his own existence deprived no more.
While he believed in one and only one thing by the time he lost her:
After death there actually lives a life,
that sustains death,
just for a little while.
And that was when he woke up with water dripping through parts of his body, be it either the eyes or the skin. He woke up to find no physical change, but something changed within his own soul. And he knew he was no more the same person he once was. With so much less of time left, he could not afford to keep on wait for love to return, rather delicately shifted to give more of his love to people.
There’s a very thin line of difference between giving up and watching everything be destroyed right before one’s eyes.
“Strategic disengagement“, he called it.
“Disappointment,” pointed towards him.
That’s what happens when I write without thinking, without blinking my ink, my blood. Without even realizing the aches all the while.
But, the blunt stroke helps me regain my lost possessions for a while, unless I fill the ink pot back to the brim.
P.S.- You would be varied of learning who I was having that conversation with. Are you?
‘My Mirror‘ is my answer to everything.
Nah. That isn’t an obsession of staring at my own disasters. At least not in this life.
It’s just that, sometimes I expect a better reply from the person in front of me.
*Now that’s surely an obsession*
Anyways. I can live with that.