The attic is like my personal blanket protecting me from the seasons of Goodbyes, disappointments, dilemmas and my constantly engulfing hunger.
The dampness in the walls erode the noiseless scars in me like peeling out excessive skin and baring out the ugly tangent I never wished to face, that got wet from my own waterfall when the wait was too much to bear.
The darkness in the room trying to grasp the light scantily tells me that even demons, sometimes, run behind the light when their rage tries to conquer their innocent turmoil.
The scarcely visible space in the attic is an embodiment of all the old memories I kept on stuffing inside, suffocating the good ones along gradually losing their radiating tint and couldn’t sprout a new one unless I entered the space and made my way through the clutter.
The most grotesque, greasy and outlandish figures, scrolls, toys, ideas, memories, silences, emotions adoring the attic.
How come it is possible to be attached to something that shows the mirror of your unorganised poetry?