Questions and their Melancholy 

Someone once asked me, you ask a lot of questions, why is that? What are you seeking so desperately? At that moment the question had hit my conscious with such a force that all sense of speech had left my body and I was bereft of any words.

What WAS I seeking? 

I had no answer for this question, just like I never had any answers. Answers always meant the end of destiny, the end of the road, and I wasn’t ready for that. This undying thirst for knowledge had gripped me tightly in its arms and the answers seemed like a million dreams away. 

I started asking questions to avoid mediocrity, to build a place for my own self from the ashes. The questions define me, not the answers. The questions are the muse. There is warmth in curiosity, the unfounded feeling of having a forever.

So, what was I seeking?

I was seeking my ownself in this gigantic carnival of a world.

Have you?

Have you ever picked up a withered flower and wished with all your heart to witness it blooming again?

To once again be a silent spectator of its mesmerising youth?

Have you ever plodded down a busy road, bustling with nothing but unfounded nostalgia?

To relive it all again and see everything burning in your eyes?

Have you walked away from life through a closed door, only to be led back to your ownself?

Have you? I prod, rather intrusively.

Have you loved someone so much that all your senses slow slip away from grasp and you stand back, smiling widely at its departure.

Writers bloc

I meant to write something long, something from the heart, something to take the edge off, just something, to heal the bruised art. The words had arrived, tumbling in their path, dragging along with them the dripping ink and its pristine canvas. I meant to rip open every portal there was, to let the pain out, to let it all escape me; to be finally bereft of those silent tears and it felt so soothing, at least in my thoughts. I had it all, my muse was back, but the words betrayed me yet again, this time laughing sinisterly at my gaped soul. The sands of time had etiolated the initial enthusiasm of their arrival and my pen remained unmoved, burdened by the weight of the ink of my thoughts. The canvas lies in tatters now, simply because it could not escape the wrath of my frustrated mind. Another day passes and the pain is still inside begging for the words to stop their sabbatical. I cannot end this cycle and the war inside wages on. The words are fleeting but the agony is perpetual.

A Caged heart

Perched on my shoulders, rests a lost little bird, drinking in everything through his shiny beady eyes, somewhat awry of his surroundings yet in a unique state of bliss.

“What keeps you so high about, oh little bird?” I ask him earnestly, curious of his meanderings and adventures.

“I escaped my cage today.” comes his joyful reply.

“What was it like?”

“Like that first drop of rain after a sultry summer, like those precious moments in the morning when there’s nothing more beautiful than a few rays of sunshine. It was like waking up after a horrible nightmare and realising that the demons that torture our souls cannot overpower our flamboyant selves. I escaped my prison with a heavy heart and an exuberant smile, when will you escape yours?” He peers at me slightly, preparing to fly away any minute.

“I’m not a prisoner, just an obstinate person.” I laugh shakily, bewildered at his delusional words.

The bird only gives me a sad smile, pecks my heart repeatedly and takes his leave. He turns back for the last time, stares at me with utter determination and whispers, “One day even you will be free from your caged heart.”

~

Do you fear your love too?

Dread the erratic rythmn of it’s melancholy flowing through your vile blood?

Do you also cower away from it’s wrath,

Because heartbreak is inevitable and you’d rather eye it’s disintegration in a dingey alley hidden from daylight than be rejected and strewn around like vintage confetti?

Do you fear your love too?

Dread it’s power to move oceans and brown eyes with frozen hearts?