Smothering Silence

 There are no last days of sadness sadness is like the jot of candy stuck in your jaw, it sticks.  It is the cold feet dangling out of quilt, wet socks, a dry tongue running out of words, a song of discomfort.  Sadness is everything in everything, in the roads you travel, in the houses you exist.  Undisturbed with what your lenses witness, It lingers even in the brief, silent moments of oblivion that are all yours.  It's an anxious thought, even an afterthought, an incomplete sentence, a lie to a lover.  sadness is not a state of mind,  it's a state of being.  A truth hanging on the tip of your tongue, but never coming out, toppling almost whatever the heart holds the discomfort in the body, the filth of the world.  the only truth which fills the void,  the void of our being,  sadness is you, sadness is me.  and there are no last days of sadness. 

 What kind of story is this? A sad demise of our promises.  A tongue tied, a chest sinking An old rose sighing, a new bell ringing. A slow sadness surfacing the clicks of time, A thread burnt black, a vicious crime. Have all of them been robbed of the sorts of bliss? What kind of story is this?

My grievous, treacherous state of mind sunken in an untagged bottle. Mine are the two hands that touch it,keep it careful with the vaccum? It's rather funny. But  very cautious, grabby and clingy I hide it when it can't be handled, but never HAND OVER. This untagged bottle is everything I can hold close a vital need in a gruesome night how would I let it be touched by you? a descretion of rules of a sugarcoated  immaterial, irrelavant life a gloom that can't be cut through and it leaks in the most vicious, gruesome nights, this bottle it's a canvas for most of the violent events, life. It knows and bears certain weight. A little peek in this pit and I'm lost, an interrupted incident, but it soaks me. for whatever time but it does. and I am aware that here, grief is subservient to confusion here, even the sadness is suffocated. A confused, tangled, mesmerized metaphor struggling to be uncorcked once again,this bottle amongst the various bottles of wine, perfumes, liq...

You couldn't avoid it and the circumstances brought you here but now the only way, you realise to gather peace in a place that was once familiar to you is to gather them in the pieces of the past. Gathering them in your little basket of remembrances, you realise, a certain smell or an object would give you the solace that everything else and everyone else now is failing to. In a room with people you know, the tea is served,with some ideas that are obnoxiously stupid for you and plainly simple for them and your silence at the dinner table, communicating toxicity towards some of their recognitions about you. No sooner than that, you realise that there's a division . A division or maybe an unavoidable conflict between what is ought to be ideal and what's not. Distress shrouded in disagreements and soaked in daily routine, political discourse, faith and beliefs, but most importantly the discrepancies in definitions. Their inability to keep track with your ideas and your loss...

I don't mind being empty. Every time, I leave trails for you So, you catch up with me When I can't. But then, I wouldn't mind I wouldn't mind, if you failed too. We can maybe sit at a distance then And let it pass. Let it all pass. And then, meet once more, if it pleases to fill each other again with everything that we think, matters. And if, by any chance the odds are against us, I will leave trails for you.

A thousand mouths of my lover and when I kiss, I'm unaware which one's swallowing me. When you swim in the river just because you want to you wouldn't want to know the depths, you'd swim because you WANT TO and when I kiss I forget which one's I'm kissing because you know, it goes the same way. Until, I'm reminded. By a diffferent feeling a different flow a different pace the roughness of the water. A brief journey to consciousness to take measures, check the direction of water before I swim to be aware of which one's I'm kissing because the deliverance of misgivings, distances are noticable when they're in the forms of kisses and most importantly when you want to drown and you can't, anymore.

While delving into the frustrations that adulthood brings along with itself and throws straightaway at our faces, while we still vacillate between floating around with memories of the past and confirming to the ideal way of ageing, art is what we believe and with time realize that truly frees us. ART in its various forms and ways is something difficult to put into a certain shape. It's actually like water, changing shapes and forms with different ideas and beliefs. It is hard to get art into some specific words or describe it within their bounds but it is, what it is. Anyway, before I derail from what exactly had amused me enough to write something, I might get this straight. The thought of struggles and hollowness led me to the idea of art, the idea of art led me to the idea of writing and the idea of writing led me to the fact , how impossibly difficult it becomes to write about something if your commitment and feelings towards the idea are weak. How this weakness impairs you to...