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Zelda
Fitzgerald says: “Yours is a story taking place behind the scenes, and I only
hope that you will not forget that most of the audience has never been there”
The way crickets chirp and birds sound, you can
hear the summer coming to close. The way grass turns and flower behaves, you
can smell the summer end.
Conflicted
colors of life, smudged with peach, the yellows and the pastels of:
the way Nirvaan trips over and goes “mumma mumma”
hand held out for me, he quiets down as i hold him … other times he climbs atop
me… lilts ‘lurvvve you’ while pressing his cheeks to mine or planting a big
slobbery one on the mouth,
painted
with pink and red of:
long talking hours when the time does it’s clichéd
flying, the interweaving of love and lust, desire and despair, making a
tapestry over my newest quilt for the everyday
patch
work of gray and black of:
dead of the night floating off, flying solo, to
distant stars.
Swim against and crash, the body breaks, the soul
lives on.
Like a logical progression, the timeline is being built up.
Somewhere in my earphones seemingly distant and
hauntingly close Shinoda Raps:
I'm
left with emptiness that words cannot defend// You'll never know what I became
because of you//Ten thousand promises, ten thousand ways to lose
Wouldn’t be it wonderful to just get up, book
yourself on a long long distance flight and be off to those distant shores.
Create the fairytale, while living it! Live the gypsy me, finally!
The loneliness fighting for space with the
fullness of grace!
The beauty of the living with the beast of survival! Their
love needs consummation, because the lines blur, the anarchy blends in with the
peace!
I think, I will sleep and catch on the half dreamt
dreams of last night, of tomorrow.
Copyright © Neerja Yadav