“You’re the reason I can’t rhyme anymore.”
I always keep repeating to myself that I shall not write about you, not any more. But the moment I stop writing – I have realized – I stop writing at all, once and for all and I write none.
I write about you. I write about it every now and again, and keep it deep secretly under the closet.
I can’t understand whether I am too afraid to say this all in your face. And I can’t fathom, if that insinuates my cowardice or my excellence in keeping secrets.
I have started loving similes since I created them in bulk, unheard and unsaid; and a million metaphors that end up nowhere – unseen and unread.
Similes and metaphors describing your smoggy eyes and wavy hair, memories and distance – distant memories to be precise, delusional hopes and everything else cherished and regretted.
Certain tales are better off unspoken, and unheard. Or at least our parable is the one.
You always said it out rightly from the very outset. And you jazzed around your point of view straightforwardly. And you danced around the truth so convincingly so you never have to break anything – or anyone.
But even then – you’re definitely not the one to blame – my parts and pieces feel bent and broken, at the mercy of 24/7 harsh weather in my mind, and scattered to whatever the rains and storms happen to pass. I feel like a building standing without the firm base ready to fall apart without anything holding it up.
Missing someone, they say, is self-centered. I self-center you every single second of every single day.
Every single piece of fiction is a reminder of thee and I want you to read; every second note of poetry – merry or melancholy – makes me crave to read it aloud to you, out rightly ignoring the very fact that it could pretty much be a nuisance on thy part.
So what am I left with? Build a sand castle along the shore, transcribe everything I wish over the sand, graffiti my thoughts in invisible ink on every wall around, build the virtual bridge and forget what I left underneath.
Even if it means, I am the one drowning under there in waters which are dry and lifeless enough not even capable of an absolute kill.
Anyway, all that is happening is for your good. You don’t have to watch me fall apart, and I don’t have to let you hold me together. And I am not falling apart either. So you don’t have to hold us together.
But I wish you would. Though, it’s a lot better that you aren’t. And it’s a lot better that you won’t, and very importantly for your own good.
OF RANDOM THOUGHTS STORIFIED 