What should I ramble today? As of late, I think I am running out of things to say. Does the second part seems like a question you also ponder a lot, my dear readers? Well, I do that every day and that is when I always requote a quote, “There are no original ideas. Just different narrators telling the same story.”
And No, there isn’t anything wrong with that. I can write ten different post explaining the very same idea. Ten views on same principle. But what I want to discuss today is more urgent. I have decided to collect all my poetry into one little collection and publish it. Yup, a narcissistic piece of shit is going to publish the most complicated form of creative writing.
Now, as you all know, I have this tendency to overcomplicate things. So how can I ignore that now? Therefore, I did another stupid thing. I didn’t started the collection in your usual way. Arrange all the poems based on themes and arranging them. Nope. I started writing a story (I know, don’t shout, I am stupid).
So thirty two poems. Thirty two ideas connected by one complicated rambling. Definitely a recipe for disaster. Let me share with you the first chapter of the collection (Yes there are chapters). Either way, here is how it starts.
I do not know what the dawn will bring our whether these words will ever reach you. But my dear Delilah, I have to write them either way. Hopefully, the gate keeper will keep his words. Hopefully, he’ll find a little humanity in his heart. Humanity which is destroyed in these walls of high castle.
It has been thirty two long nights, my dear. Thirty-two long nights before I am allowed to profess all my words to you. It isn’t as if I never wrote anything for you, I was never allowed to send these words to you. They do not want me to tell the tale of Aaranbhum. No one wants. Even I do not. We do not wish to relive the horror men lay on each other. Without further ado, my dearest, let me come to the confession that might soothe my burning heart.
I might not make it alive out of here. I am sure of it by now. And do not cry, dear Delilah, I will be at peace with that. We pay for our sins here. There isn’t a heaven or hell waiting for sinners like us. We pay for our sins, even though we sin differently.
Thirty-two agonizing nights, thirty-two nights where I had all the dark recollections of my heart. I recalled my love for you too. I recalled the agony of life. I hope all these words might soothe you for a long time. You have already made peace with my absence. That is the sad reality of a soldier’s wife. My dearest, my words, they were all I could give to you in these last seven months. And I believe it to be a poetic justice that my last gift will be a poetic epitome of all that transpired, all that caged my mind in this dark lone cell.
I have all these yellow withering pages, Delilah. Today, I am reliving all these one more time, in another night of despair. I believe that recalling these might give the last shred of peace I so dearly crave. Let me recall them for you. Let me recite my words one more time for you.
This is the very first one I wrote for you. The very first moment when I bled blue. These were the very first words I ever wrote for you. Atleast the first I could put on a paper. In my mind, there were too many symphonies of words that I had composed for you. This was my lullaby of the faded day.
“Lullabies of the faded day
My indifferent one, my heart’s companion, I write these words for you, a memoir of a madman, lullabies of the faded day, hoping, perhaps in these words, you will find the will to walk. Lies are much darker, truths are more confused. These are the confessions of a convoluted mind, stripped of any shade of gray, any shade of lies.
A wound confused, dazzled, seeking you. For today in name of love, I need you to believe, it hurts to tell you this. A few words may not be suffice, to tell the little that remains, to tell what sort of sad story I’m going to unravel this time.
For often, these terrible silences, these confusions, these illusions, but deep inside, an unsure scream, discomforted by sorrows of fearsome nights. Perhaps within my heart, O indifferent one, again and again I die a little. Shattered and scattered, like the first ray of twilight.”
There are moments, among ephemeral memories, that change your identity forever. That transform the world around us. All that we perceived mutated into something utterly different. There are times when one single decision alters your life. My dearest, the final night of the war did that for me. One breath ago, I belonged to your light and in the next, I belonged to the darkness. This particular poem was a result of that, and I aptly titled it, “A Melody of Tears.”
If it isn’t too much to ask, tell me what you think. Now for the Inktober 2017 entry, today’s prompt was crooked. Don’t ask my thought process. Even I don’t know what I was thinking (Again, I am an idiot).
A very quick study. I am planning on extending it into a painting. I have too many in line. Four which I can remember on top of my head.
This is my second post today. Phew. What? You forgot The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch again? Well, today it was my turn to write a post for the blog and you can check out the post here. “Taking Notes: Importance For Amateur Writers”
Today I’d also like for you to check out these other entries into Inktober too. I definitely did.
Looking for my other entries into Inktober? Find them here: Inktober 2017 Entries