Mirage

desert-africa-bedouin-footprints‘Best Friends Forever’
The term is fiction. So it’ll last forever but the truth is never fiction. Truth is never surreal. It’s hard as glass. It breaks then it makes you bleed. The truth is that the fictional three words will always remain unchanged but the mouths uttering them will keep changing.
The faces will keep flipping but the promising words will always be wrapped with the same superficial forever. The people will come, use and go. The time will do all to make you wither. The change will always be unacceptable for many. The trust will always seem to be strong and lasting but it’s like a mirage in the desert.
Like a traveller in the huge expanse of swallowing sand, tired, thirsty and sweaty. Dying for a drop of water to satiate his choking throat and quench his dried up soul. A sudden sparkling lake brings him back to life, revives his hopes. He runs. Runs to quench his thirst. Runs to medicate his sores. Every step dragging him deeper into glee.
His merry heart letting tears run faster than him. As his burning feet step into the merciful water and he dips his hands to get some water, it vanishes. The glass of dream breaks and then the heart bleeds. He is back in the middle of the same slaughtering desert.
Just exactly same is what the human heart is. You trust, you lose. You believe, they hurt. You play, you win. You dodge, their sin.
Friendship, love, care. Everything is like the mirage. And you are the traveller looking desperately for them. Cause even relations have their own timeline. Everything ever born has its own expiry date. Same goes for me. Same goes for you and same goes for us.

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It’s Time

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It’s time. Like everyday the clock has struck 1. But unlike everyday I cannot sleep.

I am tired, and it was a long day. My eyes feel the burden of hell and my body lifted the sky, my skin has been seared to the sun, yet sleep walks afar, the unknown, the un claimed road. I am running behind it, the faster my gait, the smokier it’s outline gets.

Something is killing me inside. Every inch, every fibre of me can feel it. Did I go wrong somewhere? Did I forget something? I did it all, as scheduled, yet I feel uneasy this time. It’s not the first time, though I am oblivion stricken withal I remember it. Every part, in every way.

I had to save her, but I couldn’t. Again. I failed. Again. She cried. Again. I tried. Again. Then lost. Again. Though she trusted me. Again. And I ran back to hold my loathing shattered pieces together. All over again.

I am tired of it, but I cannot abandon it. I hate it, yet cannot strand it. How can I ever separate my own self from me? Cause she dies everyday, every second, inside of me. She the moment she last breathed in my arms, since the very moment, I was left alone to sail a boat which already had a sinking deck. No island to surround. No destination to swim. Yet every past night I successfully deceived myself to the blinding clarity of moving on and forgetting but all I actually achieved was a hollowed soul, perishing deeper and deeper. Emptying my sordid body.

All I discovered is that forgetting you is like sinking into a void which had nothing but you. No land to step on, no water to quench, no air to suck in, only you.

But today that I learn to allow myself to accept it, accept the burning reality that it was no one else but me, me who did it all. It feels like I am allowing the fire to consume me when locked in a burning house. Like I am no longer desperate to open the windows and jump out. Cause it was me who set the fire after all. But I forgot that if I have to burn the house then I will be burnt inside it, alive. Like the house, you engulfed me inside of you, and I am no longer alive, cause I already died inside of you. I wish I never had let you fall for him and alas, I would have never poisoned you to death.

Silence

I am feeling a not so unfamiliar silence inside me after a very long time. The kind of silence which makes me want to not want anything at all. The silence that needs nothing to be needed. A sudden depth, a void of complete incessant lavish darkness. The kind that needs no one to stay.

I know it’s temporary, though I importune it to stay. It’s probably the repercussion of the reflection of my day. But I don’t want the disinterest, the oblivion and the simmering coldness to set with the sun. The pleasing sounds have become yammerings, yet every shackled fibre of me is discreetly absorbing the sordid inanimate moisture which has strangely astounded my own demented self.

Nothing seems enough. All frays feel futile withal the cause. Everything’s superfluous yet not fulfilling.

I want this influential silence to never break. The void to never end. The pain to never reiterate. The oblivion to never pale.