Every heart sings a song, alone, until another whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.
What is this life, if spent only in remembrance of those who try hard to forget you, every single memory attached to you. Why do we run after things so far fetched that even the road winds back to the start. The void I have created for myself, is harder than the one I left you in.
Life will go on. Every day has its own share of surprises, and adventures. Sometimes as small as a broken chair in the classroom and sometimes as troubling as the last page of my diary, about to close in on every feeling it hides from the starry eyes of the world.
The paper carries my load, it’s the only one left to share with. Sometimes, whatever you write is just for that one person who might stumble upon it someday. But somehow read by everyone except them.
In a bid to shadow my world from yours, I gave birth to another, stuffed with lonely and rambunctious silence, that consumes me, bit by bit, day by day. And yet I wait with hopeless hopes, floating around, still searching for meanings too hard to find, way harder to accept.
Distance, time and people around you , separate us further into unknown territories. My sole companion is now the pen, and the ink within. I only wait for a paper to be placed underneath it’s nib. Only a paper to rest my relentless heart. And words to fill the void.
I’m a writer, bound by its length and strength. What I carry, it unburdens. What I say, it quotes. What I see it reflects. What I feel, it documents, forever, waiting for you to read and recite.
Love is free they say, I say it’s bound by the paper.
Love they say, doesn’t cost, I say it’s value is in the time it revolves in. For some forever; for us, maybe never. The longer the paper sustains, the costlier the emotions it carries. Don’t think of it as priceless. It’s worth your effort, your sustenance and resolve.
I thought the world was right.
Mistook a journal, for a biography.
Not all stories are meant to be documented, some are better left alone in the diaries of life. The paper takes care of the rest.
Indeed, at the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.