I feel dust in my mouth and some ash. It tastes like a bonfire, or maybe, a burnt conscience? I can't tell, or maybe, I am too occupied to tell. I scribble on the diary that my grandfather had left in the drawer of his side table, right next to his bed, under the piles of prescriptions and some poetry notes from his favorite poetess whom he used to admire when he was 48 and was tired of the worldly affairs that included everyday's drama of his wife complaining about the kids not studying and neighbors being rude.
I paint the picture of earth and horizon with alphabets. I write about the birds chirping on the trees. I write about the very trees that seem naked without viridescence. I write about the world's unfair judgment and broken hearts. But somewhere, I disguise my misery with fancy words and glittering lies. This is what all writers do. This is what I have been doing for last 638 days, 126 hours, 170 minutes and 394 seconds.
There's a constant sound, very sharp, but comforting, and a horn after every interval. Yes, my first train ride. To a destination I don't care about, with people I don't know anything about. The dust is from the nearby village, the ash from the coal burning in the engine with flames, like the urge to explore this world which burns in my heart. "Finally!", I scribble, "The thirst of travelling by train is quenched."
I hear the cacophonies from the forest, of birds and animals and humans who have no idea about my existence in this vast, unfathomable universe. As I write, I sip the tea which has somewhat somber color and smells like a lover's breath on a winter morning. I look around from the door of the train which could be decades old and try to find something(or someone?) in the emptiness of the colossal forest which is not familiar to me. I question everything around me. I try to untangle riddles in my mind. Slowly and leisurely, I find the answers about this world and its belongings, of humans and their obsessions, of animals and their fears, of trees and their unvoiced tales. And all of a sudden this oh-so-perfect and impeccable world becomes devastatingly woeful. It singes my heart, sears my soul, smoulders every part of my body. So this wasn't a flawless universe? The nebulae weren't just colorful clouds? And the stars, the stars weren't explosions of matter? The rivers? They weren't just beds of waters. I fathom that this world is everything but what we thought.
I'm lost, doing some calculations at the back of the mind, trying to mute an old song that I heard on radio when I was travelling to a hill station by highway in my second mind and being awestruck by the secrets revealed to me the same instant. In between all of these silent cacophonies, I hear a BANG. I try to decipher what has happened and conclude that the beautiful train I was travelling on has now turned into a catastrophic debris which is ravaging me. I discern all of the world moving towards me, singing its fibs and deceits and it stings me. A stream of crimson(I thought I'd iron deficiency??) flows down my heart, down to my wrists and trips off my fingers, leaving my ugly nails look like perfectly manicured red nails. I chant some religious verses I was taught in childhood but it doesn't cure the fire that has been lit in my heart. I whisper my first love's name, who used to sit next to me in Drawing's class in 1st grade, but it doesn't help either. I see a visual, a vision of something leaving me. It's dark like a nightmare, corroded akin to a heart that has never loved someone, desolate like a little child whose father leaves her before she even learns to spell his name. It is my soul. It is me leaving myself behind because I am not permitted to know the secrets of universe.
I paint the picture of earth and horizon with alphabets. I write about the birds chirping on the trees. I write about the very trees that seem naked without viridescence. I write about the world's unfair judgment and broken hearts. But somewhere, I disguise my misery with fancy words and glittering lies. This is what all writers do. This is what I have been doing for last 638 days, 126 hours, 170 minutes and 394 seconds.
There's a constant sound, very sharp, but comforting, and a horn after every interval. Yes, my first train ride. To a destination I don't care about, with people I don't know anything about. The dust is from the nearby village, the ash from the coal burning in the engine with flames, like the urge to explore this world which burns in my heart. "Finally!", I scribble, "The thirst of travelling by train is quenched."
I hear the cacophonies from the forest, of birds and animals and humans who have no idea about my existence in this vast, unfathomable universe. As I write, I sip the tea which has somewhat somber color and smells like a lover's breath on a winter morning. I look around from the door of the train which could be decades old and try to find something(or someone?) in the emptiness of the colossal forest which is not familiar to me. I question everything around me. I try to untangle riddles in my mind. Slowly and leisurely, I find the answers about this world and its belongings, of humans and their obsessions, of animals and their fears, of trees and their unvoiced tales. And all of a sudden this oh-so-perfect and impeccable world becomes devastatingly woeful. It singes my heart, sears my soul, smoulders every part of my body. So this wasn't a flawless universe? The nebulae weren't just colorful clouds? And the stars, the stars weren't explosions of matter? The rivers? They weren't just beds of waters. I fathom that this world is everything but what we thought.
I'm lost, doing some calculations at the back of the mind, trying to mute an old song that I heard on radio when I was travelling to a hill station by highway in my second mind and being awestruck by the secrets revealed to me the same instant. In between all of these silent cacophonies, I hear a BANG. I try to decipher what has happened and conclude that the beautiful train I was travelling on has now turned into a catastrophic debris which is ravaging me. I discern all of the world moving towards me, singing its fibs and deceits and it stings me. A stream of crimson(I thought I'd iron deficiency??) flows down my heart, down to my wrists and trips off my fingers, leaving my ugly nails look like perfectly manicured red nails. I chant some religious verses I was taught in childhood but it doesn't cure the fire that has been lit in my heart. I whisper my first love's name, who used to sit next to me in Drawing's class in 1st grade, but it doesn't help either. I see a visual, a vision of something leaving me. It's dark like a nightmare, corroded akin to a heart that has never loved someone, desolate like a little child whose father leaves her before she even learns to spell his name. It is my soul. It is me leaving myself behind because I am not permitted to know the secrets of universe.
