#nirantar

Sometimes, I only hope that you would have been in love with me as much as I was with you... I know that is an unattainable fantasy, probably a ghost, even a phantasma of a figment that the heart contrives to comfort itself... Yet, it is hope, a very forlorn, hopeless, hapless kind of a hope, much akin to child's prayer for a faery, absurd, yet pure... Faeres don't exist in this jungle of chaos, they would never be able to survive here. Their music would turn to an endless cacophony of heartbeats thudding themselves into oblivion, their celestial stride would exhaust itself into a never ending marathon of a burden, their ichore would regress into a sanguine flow, thumping endlessly into their fragile veins... The child's naivete is not his folly. People grow out of it eventually. So did I, till life gave me you... And my fairytale became a reality, as fading fables sprung to life. Grownups, I daresay, don't possess the privilege to avail the infantile trait of naivete. And, exercising an unauthorised privilege is an indiscretion, one to be taxed too heavily, with a price too dear, yet payable, for hearts and souls are a parts of one's mundane constitution...  And despair is what you get, with resurrection as an add-on task, left for you to derive. That is something more of an expendable... More upto one's own self to opt for... Rooting for which would re-kindle one's life back, and not availing of that shred of chance would consequently result in a never ending spiral of doom. The choice is mine...

don't speak 2 me. gudbai.

*does a lil jig*

Are we doing fruits? ALL OF THEM NOM

nirantar replied to your post “Indian Mythology Meme: [ 1/3 ] Favourite...”

i. He was a surreal mirage, Woven into reality by the deific, Encased in flesh and blood at the hands of the celestials, An illusion of the Gods, A myth to the mundane, He stands, his hands bearing the scars of his myth profane. ii. She, they say, Is wrought with the fire wherein empyreans encase, Their realm of existence, She, they sing, Is an instrument they mean, To sing the dirge of the universe demeaned. iii. They, were shreds of the seraphic, Disengaged from their beings, Brought to the corporeal, To consummate the cycle, Of their existence supreme. iv Their ichor digressed into sanguine, Their union withered into oblivion, Their divinity vilified, Their sanctity, ravaged. While they, in their pursuit divine Waged on, for that which the heavens connive. v. Now, as he lies, Soiled in blood, and steeped in gore, Hidden from the sights of the multitudes galore, The fallen seraph of his being, Beholds the ghastly ballad that the mundane dares not sing. vi. And, lies does she, She, the divine precursor, Of the holocaust, That spelt the lyrics of a monody, Her identity mutilated, Her beauty desecrated, Even at the pinnacle of its divinity. vii. Their tears, singe the land in their flow, Their silent agony, scorches the air afloat, The inscriptions on their skins agape, Pour the rancour of their swansong in lore. vii. Their carnal encasement hardens, The sanguine in their arteries, deepen,  While they, in their termination of the mundane,  Stand absolved of the indiscretions they made, The corporeal metamorphoses into the supreme, While carcasses reign the realm of their worldly being.