25/M/Delhi Just a budding poet, trying to live through the life in his own terms possible.
There are ways of living life, with honor ,with respect,with simplicity,with aura, I choose none, i chose to decipher the purpose on a path called Happiness. 30 followers / 3.5k words
It begins with a melodious blur as a taste of forgetfulness slithers over my humble skin.
A yearning evolves slowly, to disappear away from this meaningless pursuit of flesh, we are trapped by our existence and nothing else.
I trespass within myself, in search of a purpose, in the hidden sanctums of my delusion, where blues waves greet my feet, and the sky made of ice howls with terrible winds, at my timidity.
It never rains, But I always forget to stride aimlessly, these hungry eyes are served with sumptuous visions, and till my hands bleed this hallucination copulates with my reality. I finally learn to float within myself.
I pen all of it down, in the night and call them as Art in the morning.
I was cuddled up in a sheet that day, watching the raindrops trace on my reflection, on the dusty window. A sound of a drop reverberated more than the ghastly silence. In a few minutes, the dust melted away. The sky wasn’t bright, neither was it dark. It was an essential gray, promising of a tempting void that smelled of a fresh petrichor and a floor made of broken glasses that has forgotten to bleed the flesh.
I fed my everlasting reflections to these broken mirrors till the floor smelled of my debauchery of selling facades of appeasement
I made a tryst with myself, to be brutally honest to my purpose on this planet.
And so, here am I, abiding the tryst, It’s the mellow beginning. A warm end awaits, I believe.
It happens sometimes between winter and the sultry summer, my words and visions refuse to mate, no amount of alcohol urges them to this universal transfixion on a piece of a patient paper
I have no choice left, I visit the dusted mirror in my inhospitable washroom again the vortex of time swallows me inherently, as I fall through the voiceless oceans and painstaking cheap bars that are out of beer.
I walk through the autumnal rains where the birds have learned to hide and the leaves refuse to be touched. The maidens are no longer beautiful, Houses full of Japanese crockery and European paintings are half submerged in filthy ponds to be admired by filthy fishes with filthy brains.
The kids are running and laughing on the roads but I can’t see their faces. The dogs no longer bark, but they have tears of joy and my hands have forgotten to pet these loyal creatures. Their tails don’t wag now. They refuse to acknowledge my existence.
I see my twin somewhere. The only one who smiles back at me. Contented but not happy, his eyes are his stories, his soft hands; devoid of typing are his unwritten poems. I have to **** him.
Before he swims out of this vortex. Before he swims into me. Before he falls in love with himself.