Sunday, 19 April 2015

Tombre d'amour

Written for Sharath Komarraju's monthly writing contests. Prompt: An unlikely romance.
P.S. Check out the other entries. Some really well written pieces there!


My words are not poetry,
To be read and sung and painted.
Do not mock my pain.
By pretending to understand.
She closed the little black journal with a wistful sigh. A week ago, she had found it lying abandoned under a park bench. A week ago, she had had her first seizure. A week ago, she had fallen in love.
Not with a person. No. But with words.
I bleed on these pages,
Verse by verse by verse.
And at times it is sad,
And dark and disheartening.
But it is always so beautiful.
She flicked through the pages once again, noting how the handwriting changed as she progressed. The poems themselves, changed, sometimes being replaced by entire pages of eloquent prose. It had a humanising effect on the journal, almost as if the diary itself was evolving.
You and I? We’ll change the world. You tell me you see no hope. But everywhere I look, that is all I find! Oh, only if you could see what I see. The radiance of these innocent eyes, the curiosity in these freckled faces. Yes. We’ll change the world. Wait and watch. Just wait and watch.
There were pieces that were in conflict. On one page there was hope, on the other despondency. Similar to her impending medical examinations.
Why must we suffer for the crimes of another? The journal asked. ‘Why must not we suffer,’ she scribbled underneath, ‘for all the crimes we enshroud?’
It had taken her a few days to figure out the journal. To know that the journal was evolving. Not because the writer matured but because the writer changed. Like a long kept family tradition, the journal had been passed from one broken soul to another, staying just long enough to have an effect.
A few days after this epiphany, with her reports in one hand and a blue tipped pen in another, she stretched lazily on the grass.
They say I will be missed
But do they not know
That the sun will continue to rise
And set
And the earth will continue to revolve
And someplace a little girl
With pigtails
Will skip to school
Unaware of my absence
Oh, there will be no void after me
Only a moment of strangeness
In my vicinity
And then nothing.

And with this addition, she left the journal where she had first found it. It was someone else’s turn to fall in love.


Apologies once again for the un-updated-ness (I can invent words, can't I?) of the blog. :)

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