07:35:00
WHAT
IF?
Which waves in
every raven tress,
Or softly lightens
o’er her face;
Where thoughts
serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear
their dwelling-place
Him.
That one emotion entrapped in a physical vessel. Him; punctuated in every
sentence that doesn’t make sense in her head. Him.
People
don’t make sense, these human frailties don’t make sense, the confounding
emotions have never made sense, and these fleeting hours will never make sense.
What a time to be alive. She keeps her hair tied in a messy bun and smiles at
the metaphor on her head; this mess is mine (she thinks) as the faint blush of the sky trades
places with her cheeks. She has written about unnamed sentiments, having been a
survivor of a fine assortment of a few.
This is new, this is dangerous, and
this is very strange. She is walking towards
the tablet to find a substitute for pining, a small scroll through her itinerary
for the day. She doesn’t like it one bit, this pining, this chaos. She likes it
all figured out. She remembers suddenly, mid-scroll, Nietzsche wants her to foster chaos to give birth to a dancing
star.
Clandestine,
now that’s a word she has come to understand inside out. It is juvenile and
infinitely thrilling to do things unconventionally, it has got something to do
with her fear of rejection. She hopes, to get back to her former self which seems like a morphed version of her former reality, she is trying to reclaim
the past, failingly, just like Gatsby. She sits back and analyses with a
blinkered mind, this is possibly the worst decision you could’ve arrived at, sport, but let’s make a mess lioness.
They
say that the world was built for two says Lana del Rey’s
haunting lament which is not being helpful tonight. There is no dearth of
misfortunes in her circus for a mind and eventually her life, and the rational
self deters her from pursuing the flaming path of regrets which is bound to
leave a bleak sadness in its wake. She must be under a spell, she thinks.
Taking a bite of an apple, she skims her fingers over and over the cold screen,
this is probably going to kill me, but I
have nursed a taste for tragedy, let’s get this circus on the road, she
smiles.
She
writes it, types it, edits and re-edits it and on the concluding note, falters. She completely loathes cold
feet, this is how she has judged humanity, the ones who do and the ones who don’t.
She is painfully close to being the later.
Her friends warned her about the ones with the sly stares, the undisclosed
intentions and the invisible sadness shrouding them. They will crush your heart
and leave it in smithereens. The question is whether she should jump the gun.
She is still not revealing too much in her words, she never has. She never
will. But it is tough to feign indifference and her conduct will get her
undone. The other side of Paradise
has already seen the rising Sun in her eyes, and it’s too late to shut them.
And
all these emoticons and words
try to make it better but they only make it worse
try to make it better but they only make it worse
She
leaves her secret wish on the tablet, the raging fire subsiding momentarily, the other side still needs a divine
intervention, there are no winners
tonight, only hopeful romantics, waiting for the fire to be rekindled. The text
just sits there waiting to be delivered to that one blind man. The man behind
all the What If’s in her circus.
She
leaves the room and all her secrets behind; her mind is a fucking circus.
But,
What If?
P.S.
This post is based on real events happening to real people. Thank you Sam and
Ann for shoving the blatant truth down my throat and dowsing my self doubts into
acid. (I am not referring to chemical stimulants, I hate that shit). Anaphors
rule. I am all apologies for the lack of updates. Lord Byron was a true Luminary
and my nigga.
2 comments
:3 :3 :3 :3 Sadness ensues :3 :3 :3 You crave the fiction when you need the truth, jedi master.
ReplyDeleteThe other side needs a Fucking DIVINE INTERVENTION indeed. -.- AH.
ReplyDeleteLove the Post. As always.
You make me think Yamini Jaswal. :3