She writes no more

Let this curse befall no one

I want to see that part of you no one knows. Not a soul. Not even a whisper of the wind. I want to hear all your stories. I want to see you the way you don't like to show. Bare. Real. All parts of you that shy away, all bits of you that is scared, I want a share of it all. I need the silences as much as the words. I need the smile and the anger. I want all raw places you keep hidden beneath your plain kindness, your witty banter. I want a part in the whole of you. Yes, you let me peek; then you hastily withdraw. You deflect and laugh it off as if you can't bear being seen, as if afraid that I might not get the weight behind it. What you don't know is this: That what you haven't had the courage to ask for from life, I had already asked in your stead. I want you to want more from life. Whether with me in it or not, I want you to want to hope for more. I have never cared to do anything as such before, for anyone. But then I heard your voice for the first time, and something in me settled to just listen. All thoughts brought to rest by just your sound. Your laughter reached my ears- a sound so lovely and bright; yet there, I heard the echoes of your pain instead. In a fire we both helped built, we sat side by side, and it felt to me as if, before the light had yet had a chance to reach my eyes, I saw you for you. Before there ever was a flicker for it to all unfold, I met you in the darkness we helped dispell. So, show me. Show me all of you, because there's nothing you could show that would now have me walk away from you.

We traded souls for some air to breathe

I am content to look at you in my mind. Sift through the memories of your smile tucked against a corner in my heart. Because, that's all there is left for me to do - ofcourse, apart from writing about you. Recalling your eyes at every turn. The balm of your words over my weary soul. As much as life is all the better having known you, I wish we had never met. The thought is akin to sin, but it has known the colours in my heart, seen the thoughts weaving in my too-numb brain and therefore, is more true than every moment we didn't have. I wish it were not so, but it's truth unto itself. I'm hurting and I don't quite feel it all as well as before.

Let's paint every wall a shade of color we like

Wrap me in the blanket of your arms,

Some part of me thinks there is still you at the edge of things. Where the world ends and dreams begin, on the precipice of despair, and on the tip of hope, we meet like we always do. A mere moment that lasts more than a lifetime do. A moment that stretches beyond and keeps going on. World tips over and oceans cascade and at the centre of it there is still you. Leaning over, reaching out, never giving up, giving me hope. You tell me, how can I not walk to the threshold and over it to you? You tell me, how can I not meet you whether it's the beginning or the end? I'll always, always, take that step to you.

Found this ladybug yesterday, clinging to me against the cold. As much as I was happy for the company, I tried sending it back into to rain. Futile attempts were made on both parts, at the end of which I took it back in. I had wished for it to reach its destination happy and healthy and there it lay its leg stuck to its body and unmoving- as if dead. I was guilty. I grew sad thinking it wouldn't perhaps make it, that my wishes were worthless. I was better off not meddling in its business. But I had seen its struggle, and somewhere that struck a chord, so I kept it for the night, away from the rain and the cold. Today morn, it was gone. Flew away perhaps where it was next meant to go. It was a brief moment, even still, when it clung to me for warmth, I realised maybe I was the one who was cold. I realise now that I was its destination last night. Battle as it was for either of us, we both needed some help; some warmth against the cold.

I don't think I can lose faith in myself just yet. It's not a fight. Not a battle. It's simply is, how I wake up in the afternoon and immediately think. It is how I run around my pup and want to be reminded. It how I watch and read and think I wanna live for another moment just yet. It how the untimely rain, and the music in my ears makes me feel. It is how I witness myself when I've already given up, these memories still intact. I have lost faith a long time ago. Am I holding onto it? I'm not. Have I lost it all? Perhaps. Am I living still because it takes more courage than I have to do any otherwise? Yes. I don't think I understand faith for what it means, by word, to the world, or for what it used to signify even to me. Faith is as good as faithless then. But there's me, in front of the mirror every so often, reminding myself that just one more day and then maybe life would not hurt so much. Do I wish miracles would happen? Desperately so. Do I know the futility of such wishful thinking? All to well. Do I stop hoping so? Never. Because there are more days to live. There are relations where burning bridges would hurt.There are moments where I have been happy and undeniably so. That makes me think, for whatever faith now means- perhaps it is a little star, light not of its own and galaxies apart that I borrow every night to feel a little less lonely - do I just give up that easily? I guess not. Not now. Not today. I think, not just yet.

Is mourning what it would take to ease my pain? Would forcing out my stubborn tears lighten the burden I feel? There's a constant roaring in my head. Somewhere beneath all that I've done to get over the ache building in my life, I'm losing ground. I'm being pulled in under and it's sad, that I see my life falling apart at the seams and I'm not bothered enough about it. I was tied back to life with a thread. Now severed, my lifeline now lost, the light I had started to grow so fond of now gone, I don't want to remain alone. But I'm human. I die everyday in self-hatred. I die every second in helplessness. I wake up to die feeling the pain of my thread severed again and again. The hands that joined me with life, cut me off it. I should cry. I should hate. I should roar in pain. But I suffer alone. I mourn by myself, for myself. I mourn so that I never forget. I mourn because it meant the difference between life and death. I wish all this pain would stay. I wish to never mourn enough about it.