You will heal…

Glass boxes don’t sing lore to the warriors of freedom when the skies fall and the watersPSX_20200424_213616 rise. But, skies don’t fall and waters don’t rise in vain; they sob in vile.

There are a number of things that may conjure disdain into this world, but no other blade yearns to be struck with thunder as much as the one sitting on the hilt of heartbreaks.

Sword hilts, I believe, are haunted; rather cursed.

They hold power, enough to crown a head; they hold sin, enough to behead a crown. The hands which happen to hold these swords may either bring freedom or threaten it; regardless, blood is shed and scars are left to taint hearts for ages to come.

Ages; since ages, men have been driven to worship their own strength in the name of blind pride;
and pride, though may seem like a forbidden ally to the sung masters, is nothing but a thirst;

A deep unquenchable thirst sitting at the edge of our tongues, making us blurt rage and breathe revenge.
Pride is nothing but a cry for help; a veil hiding our scars ever so elegantly.

But veils fall and masks rot in due time; what is hidden can’t be hidden forever.

One day, you will see, you will see for yourself.
When the skin on your bones will feel too plastic to be alive and the heart in your chest will feel too alive to have gone dead.
When what’s whole will seem broken and what’s broken will feel safe.

Then.. you will hear, you will hear for yourself.

You will hear how beautifully you may have chanted the prayers of freedom if you wouldn’t have dug graves for your own tongue.
You will smile at your flaws and you will kiss your own scars.
You will sing in the chorus of joy and pray for peace in the choir of blatant hatred.

And when that day arrives… You will heal!

Beauty…

These roads, they have never known peace.

“Quiet and calm”, no poet dares to gift these words to his lover.

Yes…his lover…the fuel to his art… Life.

My feet have sores, I walked barefoot for years…but I won’t dare to caress them…for…my rendezvous with this pilgrimage hasn’t borne any fruit yet.

Every lonely night, I stare at the stars and think. Aren’t we all travelers?… Vagabonds… The delusional vagabonds!!

No place called home has ever been warm enough for cold nights.

No lake could wash away the filth and dirt off our soiled silhouettes.

We, are all misers.

Life is a sorceress, we fall for its magic.

Life is the mistress in this facade of beauty.

A dawn ago… I halted to hear some songs of praise for her highness.

The singer hailed loud and clear,

“Everything “life” is beauty!
Everything “death” is beauty too!!”

My heart smiled and blurted out loud,

“Then why does my soul yearn for peace!?”

Fear of Failure……

Click here to read chapter-1

I was sitting in a rocking chair with a pen and diary in my hand. It creaked as I rocked it back and forth. The room was silent and had a dim oil lamp which accented its decor with a beautiful yellow.  The room was silent, but my mind was not! In my mind, there was nothing but chaos, uninvited noises and fear. Chaos because of all the time that I had wasted, noises of taunts that came from unmotivated mouths and fear of failure. I sat there silent and allowed my pen to run on the paper, to run far away from whatever I was experiencing.

The last drop of the oil in the lamp crackled as its soul rose up, burning with a bright yellow flame. The insects stayed there, being silent spectators to the departure of their love. The room started loosing its yellow accent as the fire blew out, handing over the throne to the moonlight.

I frowned. I was disappointed. It seemed as though the lamp was mocking my situation and the chore of reigniting the fire was a token of this mockery! I kept my pen and diary on the table, folded my arms and sat there for a while, staring into nothingness.

Drops of water trickled down the faucet. The last flock of birds flew back to their homes. The clock struck ten. The night had just begun its journey to rest in the dawn. I had just begun my journey to thrive in the burning fire of my ambitions. This thought prompted me to jump out of my brief meditation and surrender to the demands of the lamp.

I picked up a match box, some oil and started the fire. At first, it hesitated, as though it feared that it would not be able to fill in the shoes of its predecessor, but then, it chose to embrace its fear rather than fighting back. The fire allowed the fear to fuel its will and burnt even brighter than the one before it. I stood there for a while, with a smile on my face and a hope in my heart. A hope to embrace my fears just like the fire did!