I'm abhorring the sights of the people exhibiting the grief in manifolds, cloaked like the old druids within the circle of Stonehenge...forgetting it was the life we all supposed to celebrate. Grief is inevitable but erecting a disfigured tomb of Nosferatu, like a melancholy franchise.... hardly I can afford that. Tears drips down but it's the Lestat, I've chosen myself to become. Trying to find a meaning from the darkness within .
I'm human—my "memory is no more than a sieve". Time heals all wounds for my kind."Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me''...it will; what I'm finding hardest to forgo, it will pass over with each trickle of warm blood through my veins.
But still a question rages within, whether is it out of compulsion we are made prone to sadness? The whole erection of vampire Nosferatu is sucking my blood and leaving me numb. Battles are lost without being fought. Self-appointed adversities are vindictive about my slipping away. I'd tried to rise up and to feel the taste of rouge but I didn't care. It wasn't a disaster. I lost two cities, lovely ones, a vaster realm once I called my own. Many emotions were washed down when the banks of the two rivers on those two places were flooded. Like places, peoples were lost too. No, it's still not a disaster. Though it looks like one. And it will look like so, when I will lose the city I'm in, with the river flowing through it, people I loved here and the whole the continent.
Pertinent problem I'm facing is : when I try to look back in some of those few moments, I thought I complete. I don't find any faces to remember. The faces, those were visible then, not that I'd to imagine them. But back in here, now it's only words I do remember. Black and white words of happiness, sorrow, despair, joy and exhilaration. I'm not allowed to dream. No no, not here. Elsewhere I am free. Here it would be bad, like it's worse to take someone else's toy while they were asleep. Bound to my little existent conscience, through the mazes in my sub conscious what roams and haunts my dream is only memories. But memories devoid of moments. It's only the dialogues but who are delivering them, can't be seen. I slept today and for last few days only with words swirling inside my mind. Without any shapes and feel. Only the past is always dancing in the tune of my present.
Still under the splendid suns, around the veil of morning mists and along the blowing winds....life is worthy of all the turmoils. While the few glimpses of serene peace are the reflections of those moments where I've fallen in love with it over and over again.
Thought home could be a safer refuge, going there...back in home, spending few moments in reflection of past meets present would assuage the suffocation. But suddenly the barriers got forged stronger and higher...it's seeming impossible to scale. Not really, but what seems as what they are. I miss my winters back home. I miss the prolonged autumns, ushering with rainy showers while stretched along with dewy mists. I miss the dry springs with sudden arrival of storms over parched advent in summer. I don't miss the summer that much. May be because I am going through my balmy summers. That's gonna be staying around for a while. In fact I miss my home and the small town but never agree to the fact that I do...deep rooted it might seem that I know, I can never go back home, stuck at the carousal of metropolis, I'm not going to find out the reason behind my self denial, not that the truth would be something I must avoid at all cost, I felt it long before I can express, but I know somehow that I don't want to be liberated from that bondage, knotted somewhere, better remain not found and untouched.
VOILA!!!!!
ReplyDeletea solitery reaper...just walked through the emotive field!
metaphorically poignant...poignantly amazing!