The Memories

We used to be strangers,

Nothing was known, no memories.

I hope we had remained the same,

Because now nothing is left.

No bliss, no pain.

Falling

I was falling, Deep into the air. It felt like I was flying, Descending in the layers. The ground would catch me, Why would I fear? Numerous hands tried to save me, I was just flying, why do they care? My excuses came to an end, I wish I would've dared. But, even if I held someone's hand, How do I assure myself, That those hands won't leave me, In the middle of somewhere.

~ark

And then she realised, Her efforts were being ignored, Because she couldn't acknowledge someone else's fears, their tears and the hard work with which their success was reared.

~ark

Belonging

I let people go while I hold onto things. People drift apart, flowing rivers and I remain a shore, holding onto their fragments. The letters they wrote, the illustrations, the conversations, I preserve them, becoming soil, fertile and fruitful.

I hold onto memories, capturing the person I know would change eventually. Who finds the same person twice even in the same person anyway?

So, thereby, my efforts are never focused on caging the flowing river rather, take a part of it and make it a part of mine. 

Be it good or bad, I absorb everything to nurture my being, to experience bliss and pain, to experience fertility, to experience solitude when called barren.

The rivers become a medium of change sometimes, I flow through them, my silt deposited where it didn’t belong but still absorbs in it, becoming a part of something different yet I remain different. 

I wonder whether my identity of being silt was just an imagination. Being a human, I must be a river, ever flowing, irrigating fields of livelihood, ever changing, giving and taking yet never keeping.

But that’s where the difference came. I too give and take but after making it mine. 

I possess; hence, I belong. I belong; hence, I remain trapped.

Her Life

Her laughter echoed the pain of her cries, The ice melted, she burned and tried. Happy face with empty eyes, Her smile depicted the pain confined. Her words reflected her past mistakes, She vowed to change her dying life. Bleeding by the cuts of their knife, She refused to be called futile. She decorated her old grave, With the ribbons of the broken ties. Rising from the ground once again, Her silence roared the goddess's might.

~ark

"I don't even feel anything anymore, I'm just immersed in the stillness of my own thoughts."

— Echoes of the Infinite, Restless Prayer

I predicted the end, Merely after one chapter, half written. The rest of the story waited patiently, I too waited for it to begin.

~ark

I write when I'm sad cause I'm pretty busy when I'm happy.

Plethora of thoughts came to my mind, But I chose not to write. Not because I couldn't find words for the same, But because the paper was unable to carry such pain.

~ark