Weave a story, would you? Or a poetry again? Oh yes I would love to, but….
Well, are in this magnificent pause now, aren’t we.
Again… yes again.
When do you see your dreams gathering and collecting themselves into the most invincible tempest of words? When do you see your words seek the memories of your rendezvous of love, of the hours of deciphering the language of lust, of winters that stubbornly froze you into an eternity of numbness, Of the snow that refused to melt on an epitaph, of the moonbeams that heard your tales of love but refused to swim across the ocean of stars to reach the man you shared the tales with, of those hour long flings with loathe or maybe pity, of autumns that were set ablaze as long forgotten epistles flung into the hearth? When do your dreams pick up a language of their own, with a grammar drenched in all shades of melancholia or perhaps ecstasy? When do your words twirl into the air and fancy themselves as threads spinning up a fabric of muslin stained with unsung and unheard melody of you?
I write when I’m in ruins – I write when I wish the tomorrows were only but a finger-counted few.
I write when my heart is set ablaze by emotions that are boundless and merciless all the same - I am no phoenix to rise from my ashes, so I write to leave behind a memory for those who would wish to read me. I write when my dreams swell up and burst into shards that rip my soul apart, when I feel the flesh in my heart hangs by a thread of hope…
I write when I’m being devoured by an overwhelming sense of despair.