Astray.

You’re engulfed in the flames, my love. You’re too blinded by the smoke to see the fire around you. Open your eyes a little, it won’t sting, I promise.
Look around you, my love. See how the world blossoms into a caricature of emotions. Open your heart a little, it won’t scar, I promise.

Write me a lullaby, my love. Not because I need one but because you can.

Mirage.

 

She sleeps across from me,

in a silence so eerie

cuts glass into shards mirroring broken emotions,

whispering in her sleep,

lamenting the loss of innocence,

as the night progresses, she silently weeps

for she is too scattered to be saved

and too frightened to try.

Willis.

She walks in a dark alley behind a street called Hope. Anxious steps mar her seemingly silent facade. She waits out her sentence while persistently searching for a sign. She’s restricted by her past and weighed down by her future. She longs for company in her self imposed solitude. Trembling, she moves forward.

The lack of an audience with open arms, lauding her foray into this part of the world surprises her. The street called Hope is deserted. But she sees the sun. She’s happy.

It’s not about how little you matter to others. It’s about how long you are willing to fight to make yourself matter.

The song is Willis by Sea Of Bees and it’s bloody amazing.

Ambush.

As I write this, I’m blinded by the steady stream of tears escaping from my eyes and falling unceremoniously onto my bed sheet. The fact that I have been incapable of discovering the reason for their initiation astounds me.
Gingerly, I pick up my phone, do what every female on this planet does whilst in this situation and call a friend. By  doing so I succumb to a trait tauntingly  attributed to females and since I am not usually for all this sappy emotional crap, this act delivers the second surprise of the night.

Disconnected, no, not the call but I feel so. The phone, on the other hand keeps ringing. 

Daily Prompt: My Hero AKA An Attempt to chart the course of the classic ‘What Went Wrong?’

I understand that I’m a little late for this but I couldn’t help it. I don’t usually participate in Daily Prompt and contests as such but this one’s different.

My hero isn’t someone who saved me from a burning building, neither did he save me from an animal of some sort nor is he some famous personality. He isn’t even discernible from the crowd. He’s an ordinary man with an ordinary home and an ordinary life. He isn’t even alive.

I was a kid and the apple of his eye or so I’m told. He loved me and was proud of me. It was all about walks in the park and ice creams back then. He helped me with my homework, went to my PTA’s and did a bunch of other stuff that I don’t remember anymore. Memories fade, grief doesn’t.

He used to walk me down to the bus stop and when I came back from school, he carried my backpack and asked me what I had done in school that day. He loved to chat about politics. He used to play badminton with me when none of my friends would agree to and he was 70 years old!  He was ferociously protective of me and couldn’t see me cry. He stayed up countless nights caring for me when I was sick; he was the last to go to bed in those days.

He had hopes for me, expectations from me. He believed that I would make a change someday. He didn’t influence the course of history but he did influence my future.

I saw him die right in front of my eyes and I couldn’t do anything. I wanted to save him, I wished to be the hero for once, but I couldn’t. Friends consoled me by saying that he’d seen the world, he was old, and it was expected. I was 11 years old and my grandfather had died. The man who had taught me to live life was dead. Irony at its finest.

It’s been 8 years now and I still shed a tear or two when I think of him. To tell you the truth, it’s a blur most of the time and soon enough nature will take its course and I’ll forget entirely.

I hope to see you again, Dadu.

Dusk And Summer

“Anarchy” we yelled.

“Submit” they ordered.

“Revolution” we demanded.

They just laughed.

Ah, I can’t finish this. See, I was going to write about a glorious fight, The Man versus the People. It was going to be a story about this person who stands up, against the authorities; about the atrocities (for the lack of a better word) committed by them on that hapless individual and on the gullible idiots that supported him. It was to end in a tragedy and frankly, being the morose fool that I am, what else could I possibly end it in?

Basically I wonder, how long can a person fight, whether it is against the authorities, the bigger man or a bully. How long, before the flame goes out? How long, before that person realizes that the real battle is raging inside them? How long? There is a perpetual struggle for victory existing between the hope which gives them strength to fight till their last breath ( and I’m not being melodramatic) and the instinct to give up at the first instance of trouble.

The moment you begin to question yourself, you’ve already lost. Give up; give in, the fight is not worth it. Nothing is, really. Run away, there’s always a better place, a better time to live in, to revel in. And then, when that goes to hell, run again. Run hard, run fast and then everything’s a blur. The haze is your redemption.

The song is Dusk and Summer by Dashboard Confessional.