Today, let's suppose that i write a soul into this flesh and pour into it consciousness of the lost existence, that once belonged to me. Erase the denial off my palms. Lets suppose, that today i write about my longing and set myself free.
Neither of us remembers how i ended up here sailing rudderless between two shores of despair. Battling the quagmire within and without. but, here i am nonetheless. The same woman, with the same heartache.
I've so many things on my mind. i am a breathing reminder of questions though I hardly remember the whats that need to be asked. But, today, let's suppose, I give up my questions and accept the unscripted answer that lies beneath this detachment, the answer that is 'life'. The life whose meaning I lost somewhere in my escapism, like a forgotten flower breathing its scent into the yellow pages of a forgotten book. Lets suppose, that the flower is dead now and doesn't matter anymore.
As I stand here, a majestic mess, my hands still clutch on to rent fabric, holding on to it like a dying man would hold on to his breath. the fabric that we wore on our bodies like a smile. the fabric that was once 'love', woven into my body like the network of capillaries that now carry the remains of my longing from my heart to my lips. And here, let's suppose that today I write a river and drown my tears into it where the estuary becomes the ocean. The ocean births the cloud. the cloud mourns with rain. and the rain drenches the world with my words.
Today, lets suppose i write to you, would you read?
Neither of us remembers how i ended up here sailing rudderless between two shores of despair. Battling the quagmire within and without. but, here i am nonetheless. The same woman, with the same heartache.
I've so many things on my mind. i am a breathing reminder of questions though I hardly remember the whats that need to be asked. But, today, let's suppose, I give up my questions and accept the unscripted answer that lies beneath this detachment, the answer that is 'life'. The life whose meaning I lost somewhere in my escapism, like a forgotten flower breathing its scent into the yellow pages of a forgotten book. Lets suppose, that the flower is dead now and doesn't matter anymore.
As I stand here, a majestic mess, my hands still clutch on to rent fabric, holding on to it like a dying man would hold on to his breath. the fabric that we wore on our bodies like a smile. the fabric that was once 'love', woven into my body like the network of capillaries that now carry the remains of my longing from my heart to my lips. And here, let's suppose that today I write a river and drown my tears into it where the estuary becomes the ocean. The ocean births the cloud. the cloud mourns with rain. and the rain drenches the world with my words.
Today, lets suppose i write to you, would you read?
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