I've known how she once; hurt by the one she loved the most, torn apart like pieces of an unwanted letter,
and blown out the window from the room of her comfort;
cried alone at nights till tears left marks on her face like a river leaves after flooding her banks...
and found her solace in books, hid her face in the pages and smelled them again and again
till the paper hid the scent of her loss and she finally could fall asleep.
I'm not hurt, or maybe I am, in ways I can't mark on paper and talk about.
I have not cried in a while, but I can sense the rushing waves under my lower eyelids, waiting for the night of rapture.
I'm walking in her footsteps thus, turning the pages of books to find a clue, I don't know of what...
reading lines after lines as scenes unravel and characters play their part and stories unfold.
My silence hides safely in the sounds of fluttering pages caught in a sudden gust of wind.
I look up and maybe I'm looking for her..I always do, everywhere.
I try to write at times, these words that flow like words suddenly revealed from the root of existence...
I don't write them, I don't think them..they appear as such.
I am caught in this though-traffic, I shift between being ecstatic and miserable, ecstatic mostly.
I am scared to accept that she, is the one behind all these.. because I don't fear surrender..but I fear truth.
Her one, simple truth.
-17th March, 2015