If ever I got a chance to pick a magical object at the pawn shop then it would be a crescent blade that can cut off pain from the happy memories.
I had tried and tried so hard but had not been able to re-live the flakes of moments without dissing myself and throwing into the pit of overgrowing melancholy. I wondered the poetry I exhaled is a cure of a damaged heart but all it did was gracefully become an active volcano exploding to an extent that numbed my sensory organs and showed me a naked truth of poems being a catalyst in crackling fire in me.
What if I told you that I am that ‘Evil Queen’ who, pragmatically, established the clear boundaries of evil against the good with a help of an apple? What if I told you the mirror I was infamously portrayed with, was no magical but a concrete reality that unveiled my harrowed insecurities and loathly self, who only wanted to feel better of herself but kept misquoting her worth through a lowly piece of glass.
What if I confess that it wasn’t my dark magic that conjured up all the poison in that apple but the debris of my self-respect which was smothered under the pretense of an ugly face I carried, by all those bullies who knew nothing about looking beyond the pale, helpless skin. When I was falling off over the destroyed precipice of my innocent self, no one paid heed to a good heart before calling me a wicked soul.
What if I told you the time has gone by and the Snow White(s) of today isn’t a synonym of fairest skin and purest heart? Or who is to know in the former era, who the actual evil was? The stories are told and briefcase-d the way it suits the purpose of the past and the message to be sent across into the future.
That poisoned apple was a reply to all those criticism I had to endure because of those bullies. And believe me, evil isn’t born in a single night but sculpted through tremendous hate and hostility, forcefully hammering distaste inside and axing out the appreciable parts.
The reason it was taken out from the pages of history or better-called fiction, is because it held shreds of evidence of a crossover with Dr. Frankenstein, when I begged him to revive my innocent self while I was on the verge of losing it but what unleashed was was a monster that killed everyone in its way, even the people most loved by it. That apple was an embodied version of a poisoned monster I never knew existed in me before I met the fiend one, called discrimination.
A part of me is holding back tears as though these have found a permanent home in me. My hands clench in a fist so those tears have a shrinking companion when my body stands stubborn as hell. What has gotten into me that every breath I heave feels like it’s dissipating from under a large boulder placed on top of my lungs?
My toes have a funny way of pulling itself in and out before it places it’s foundation on a doormat of my heart; that has been wet for so long and no one had cared enough to dry it for me, not even I, myself. Probably, the tears I hold back has an empty sense to rhythm with a clear sky turning it into thunderous monster rain.
Does my sanity keeps touching the ground to know if I’m still present in this world? Or is it another episode of deja-vu where my insanity reminds me of a barren mind I possess?
I was never a speck of dust but a journal of those scattered souls who poured their siphoned poetries in an attempt of re-writing their fairytales. My 3am sapphire blank pages caped with teary storm had a funny way of seeping sadness in sleepless souls. A hugh blue hue carpet I possessed at ascended heights that didn’t kill but kept them afloat on mayhem of daydreams. It was me who cried hard but the people below, the empaths, silently tasted my sad whispers and instead took a rain check on their dreams.
A long time ago there were 2 friends, a writer, and a painter. Both were equipped with exquisite taste, talent, and were well-known connoisseurs of their art. One painted a world of luminant imagination and the other gave flavored words to the world. One day they made a bet. The painter said, “I would love to know what influences the world more- my vivid colors or your moving words?” to which his writer friend willfully agreed.
The painter painted the most extraordinary piece of fine art, something even he was really proud of. The writer friend wove the most beautiful words for the painting describing each visual like a strand of gold. They both put an exhibition and asked people to share their thoughts. Some liked the painting more and some dotted over the words chosen to describe the painting. At the end of the day, it turned out both of them got equal votes for their craft. The friends agreed that both painting and the writing had the power to move the world but still there were some blanks in their hearts they couldn’t fill even after the exhibition.
They were almost on the verge of calling the day off and the writer friend was wrapping everything up that he saw the last person who came to their exhibition. The writer saw from afar, an old man hugging the painting and shedding tears of joy.
The painter friend came back running to his friend when the writer said, “I know you won. That guy bought your painting, isn’t it?” To which the painter replied, “Yes, he certainly did. The old man hugged the painting because he was so moved by those words which made him remember his golden childhood days. He was blind, he couldn’t see my colors but when I read the scroll out loud he broke into tears. It were your words that painted the image in his heart to which he cried for.” “I asked him purposely if he wanted the painting. The old man said the soul resides in the words how he could separate it from the colorful portrayal of it. Then, I asked if he only wanted the written scrolls? He said those words would lose meaning if weren’t aligned with the masterpiece that comes alive under the sky of expression, so he bought both; my colors and your words.
So you see, neither I nor you won. And, if you ask me who won. It’s ‘The Art’.
Our Art and everyone else’s that struck us like comets of enlightenment, of safe-haven, unending epilogues, like a gush of windy imagination, a language of love, the pilgrimage of emotions. It passes us or sometimes stays in our lives and we simply can’t turn away from their beauty for it takes us to another world that seems unearthly while our feet touching the ground. So my friend here’s to being a part of building different and unique perceptions of this universe.” And they both cheered.
It rained today and I went a little tipsy. Sloshed under the influence of my liquor-coated old diary when those words had me smiling.
I sat under a little parasol where the rays of sun faded just like my senses. Tiny droplets roared at me for my teacup-sobriety, half-dreamt, non-frightening, easily-achievable goals.
Splashes of rain scattered all over hitting me hard with whisky-fied realities “If your dream ain’t scaring you it ain’t a ‘dream’ enough” Written in bold letters in my boozed up diary.
Where’s the sense for being in senses at all times. Your imperfect pipe-dream craziness, uncontrollable thread of imagination, a conscience full of ideas, a craving to build something is what makes you, you.
It’s better to be drunken enough in your blazing dreams than to sail sober in the same waters sprouting drudgery work and routine-y results.
Rains drew in the curtains leaving the reasonable world out to reach my half-sewed, legless dreams wanting to reach to its zenith.
