Book quotes, Poetries, Thoughts, Moon & Coffee

I'm afraid of this word more than anything else.

My rumination knots it with rue, grief, and languor.

What if we get caged in the loop of these lethal sentiments?

What if our despairs become IMMORTAL

digging their roots deep,

till they decay us in our graves as well ?

I want to write raw, without dressing my fancies in metaphors.

As Franz Kafka wrote, “I am in chains. Don’t touch my chains.”

And Sylvia Plath confessed, “I desire the things which will destroy me in the end.”

But the tragedy is—

I am not them.

I am someone drowning in the deep, vast ocean of the 21st century,

where meanings are veiled, where truth, when penned crystal clear, is wrecked and drifts apart like autumn leaves, and where echoes are strangled into silence.

Sometimes I wonder if the words I borrow from foreign tongues to express my vague thoughts truly belong to me.

When I rant to myself in a language that is not my mother’s, I feel as though I’m wearing a borrowed skin, standing under someone else’s umbrella, or robbing a fellow’s coat just to guard myself from the frost.

The thoughts are mine, raw and restless, yet the voice and echoes carry the accent of another world.

This makes me question: are these fragments of me that could never be born in my own language?? Voices that only sob but could not cry out loud?

How do I explain this to people? I feel the weight of time.

Time is not just the clock ticking or hours sinking, I feel the weight of time in my bones, and it is constantly pressing on my shoulder, I feel it in my slowing steps, in the growing silences, in the silent weepings.

I see it not only in the changing hues of the earth; summer burning into autumn, winter bleeding into spring, flowers blooming or fossils of leaves decaying, but in the faces around me, in how laughter turns quieter, how leisure turns into crowded work,

I see it in photographs yellowing at the edges, in the fading of memories, in the goodbyes of people.

Time doesn’t pass like a gentle breeze, it presses, it presses with its utmost force.

It’s in the way one paints their idea of you, the way one gazes at a fleeting moment, the way someone’s fingers stroke through your hair gently, or how they lean closer just to listen.

Poetry fumes even in the making of tea, the cooking of lunch, the decorating of cakes and cookies, or when someone spreads jam on their bread, sips their coffee, or breaks bread in silence.

It lingers in the footsteps along corridors, in the way one styles their hair, or drapes their dress. It dances with the shifting seasons, rests along the arranged books on a shelf, and hides in random piles of notes on a study table.

Everything leaks poetry.

Some sip it, some bleed it, some absorb it, some wear it…but it’s always there, waiting to be seen.

And you ?

You wake up. Not because you want to,but because the world doesn’t stop for your grief.

You sip your coffee, just one sip, but you do. You take a bite of your sandwich,a small bite, but you do.

It’s not about hunger. It’s about proving to yourself that you can still carry on, even with broken grace, even with burnt wings.

Survival isn’t always grand victories. Sometimes it’s about the quiet, stubborn act of choosing life:

Tying your shoes with shaky hands

Doing your dishes a bit late (yet you do them)

Making the bed for yourself(even though you might not sleep).

The world doesn’t pause. Neither do you,not completely.Not forever.

Nope , they’re too distant to touch me yet.

Would the mist of the present choke me?

Hell naah , I’ve learned to breathe in fog.

Would the ache and guilt of the past undo me?

Perhaps , their teeth still gnaw my bones with a ravenous hunger.

Would the bittersweet nostalgia destroy me?

Absolutely , it’s the sweetest poison I know.

I had dinner with my younger self.

She came to the table, tenderly holding her favorite bear.

Her smile was so bright it lit up the whole room,

her cheeks round and puffed like ripened summer apples.

I couldn't bring myself to tell her what lay ahead in adulthood............

so I sat there and told her about her achievements and the proud moments she would one day celebrate.

And for a while, I let her believe the world is just as gentle as she is.

Often I wonder what am I , more than just a human ?

And then, in some self reflective moments of my day, the answer arrives quietly with honor.

I'm the prayer I make for others ,I'm the love I bring to the table , sometimes in grand gestures , sometimes in gestures that no one notices but me.

I'm the smile that flashes on my fellows faces because of something I said, the laughter that echoes in the room when I crack a joke, the warmth that someone feels simply by just being around me.

I'm the patience I hold when the world go hard on me, the silence I choose instead of words that could brutally rip someone. I'm the fragments of the kindness I scatter without expecting them to return .

I'm the encouragement I give when someone is on their lowest, the gentle reminder that they matter, their life matter, & that they have courage to go through the turmoil they are facing .I'm the listener , the keeper of secrets shared with me.

I'm the confidence I carry myself with even when I don't quite feel myself. I'm the fear I feel when I step into a new concept, the courage that walks beside it.And maybe that what I'm beyond being just a human — A Constellation.

I was suturing the ruin of my skin in silence

when their gaze caught the trembling thread & needle.

I tried to explain;

but words spilled out like jagged daggers,

each one tearing the flesh anew,

gouging it wider

until it was nothing but a wide ,ripped wound,

raw, red mouth

growling all over again.