Maybe We Need To Stop Living Among Metaphors.

A single puff of dust swoops up from the ground as if conjured by a magic spell. Between the dust that now settles back onto the dry ground, the droplet that has caused this tiny hazard is long gone; already soaked into the depths of the thirsty earth. Gradually the whole space starts being bombarded with such tiny dust bombs, and the burning plane drinks it up as quick. The heat rises evidently out of the ground as the water droplets pick up speed; it trickles out of the ground, prompted by the cooling rain. In no time the rain spell grows in intensity drenching the parched land, the thirsting flowerbeds, the burnt grass, the dry soil. It subsides even before it can trickle down towards an unknown path. 

The drowning sun sends golden waves that glint off the raindrops that cling to each surface. There is a general relief that drifts through the air, soaking people along with the rain. The air resonates with cries of happiness and prayers being send heaven wards. Between the beautiful chaos, that is the rain and the mayhem caused by everything around, she’s caught in the moment. Despair and satisfaction run through her, somehow together. 

The light from the setting sun filters through the window, being the only source of illumination in the gradually darkening room. As if it’s trying to show her the light but she was too much of a coward to break through her cage. Or maybe it was just the light slowly seeping out of sight. Maybe she just needed to stop living among metaphors. 

Between the profound desolation and satisfaction other emotions fluctuate, creating an incoherent tangled mass of feelings that looks like a twinkling star, fading and glowing, and fading and glowing. The satisfaction she was feeling, encased by time in that moment was an oddly familiar sensation. Although, how it sustained with the growing feeling of melancholy and despair was awe engaging. Maybe she had found bliss in her sadness. Or maybe sorrow had become home, the place where the heart was. 

Amidst all this, there was never an ounce of emptiness. The despair was not hollow, neither the silence nor the loneliness. Each was a part of her own, entwined so strongly with her backbone, knotted with her nerves and melded with her blood. She was them and they were her. She weaved her anguish in patterns and found happiness smiling in the folds of it. Why did people assume she was unhappy? She was not.

The monotonous despair had shown her so many colors of life and it had taught her well, too. Everything was there and she was the one revolving in the middle, touching despair, sparking happiness, dying a little while she lived each day. Being a part of everything, everything a part of her. 

The grateful exclamations start afresh as the rain comes down in full haste. The light has all but left her now darkened room but she doesn’t flips the light switch, she doesn’t moves from her place for she is content while watching the hues that dance within her; as her realizations take shape.

-Momina

Echoing secrets

It’s in the wee hours of the morning when everything is so still it’s almost sinister, when the silence can be shattered by the drop of a pin, when it’s slightly scary even in the comfort of your own house; it’s in these dark moments that deep thoughts prevail me and I get the urge to write down all those. They are not about my life, these thoughts; they are about life in general, about the laws of nature and about people, strangers and friends alike. 

In these hours nothing makes sense and yet all of it makes more sense than ever. It’s so intricately designed, to be understood but at a certain moment, to be known but at a specific time; when you doubt it. When you suspect the truth of your thoughts and when truth is not transparent but lucid. The reality is so obvious that it’s suffocating.

And as dawn descends my pen just hovers over the paper, it has left splotches of ink; dark blue circles spread across the clear page. I recognize the truth but I have no power to write it, my thoughts reside but my words escape and betray me. A betrayal that doesn't hurts, an infidelity so obvious it is looked over, for these secrets are meant to be realized not spoken. Everyone falls through the reality of these moments, none can flee and none can incarcerate it in words or so. They are meant for all of us alone, secrets of nature that are meant to exist in in nature only. 

-Momina.

Picture source: http://stanzlife.wordpress.com/

I cried...

We have a high roof in the lounge, higher than that in other rooms, so sometimes I lie down and stare at it, and I think. Last night, I stared at it because sleep wouldn’t come to me and I cried. I cried because I had lost friends. I cried because I knew I was losing the rest. I cried because I had no idea what was going on. I cried because I didn’t know the path of my future. I cried because I forgot what went on in the past. I cried because at that moment I forgot everything and I cried because I was lost, not known when to be found again. I cried because I was unhappy. I cried because my unhappiness made others unhappy. I cried because some people suddenly just stop. I cried because I wasn’t sure if they trusted me that moment. I cried because I was alone, because I was sad and for some reason guilty. I cried because sometimes nobody understands. And I cried because sometimes they understand too much. I cried because I misinterpreted people. I cried because everything is just an illusion. I cried because there really is no perfection. I cried because the end is always too close. I cried because it all made sense but then I cried because I was confused. I cried and cried and then I fell into an uneasy slumber. I hope nobody cries like that.

Momina.