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If Words had wings
Every morning, as the sun peaks though my window, I bundle down a heap of lost hope, conceal it under my pillow and pretend to sleep. As the day goes bleaker I get up from my bed, wrap a cloak of responsibilty around myself and step out, cause I have to.
This world is a cage, where most birds are born without wings and the rest are just too scared to fly. I am one of those birds, I am sure most of us are. We are all made to swim in a puddle of expections while we were only meant to fly.
Cafes, book stores or the metro, wherever I go, I see a heap of happy souls who are happy because the need to be. I stand stand in the corner and gaze at them for a while, sometimes. What is it they have, that I lack? I ask myself. are their clothes less shabby? Or are their houses are more warm? Or may be they simply have found a therapy for themselves.
Some of them paint their fences blue, and stroke those cottony clouds with thier brush. They paint their own sky. While some sing themselves a lullaby every time the night gets colder. It helps them sleep. And then there are people like us, who write. We write, because in our fictions we can be everything we failed to be, we can do everything we always wanted to do, with people we have always wanted to have. We write poems, because our poems are the only place where we can lend ourselves an infinite sky. In between our stanzas we are free to fly, we can communicate through the idioms. If words had wings, may be we writers would never write.
© Sagnik
This world is a cage, where most birds are born without wings and the rest are just too scared to fly. I am one of those birds, I am sure most of us are. We are all made to swim in a puddle of expections while we were only meant to fly.
Cafes, book stores or the metro, wherever I go, I see a heap of happy souls who are happy because the need to be. I stand stand in the corner and gaze at them for a while, sometimes. What is it they have, that I lack? I ask myself. are their clothes less shabby? Or are their houses are more warm? Or may be they simply have found a therapy for themselves.
Some of them paint their fences blue, and stroke those cottony clouds with thier brush. They paint their own sky. While some sing themselves a lullaby every time the night gets colder. It helps them sleep. And then there are people like us, who write. We write, because in our fictions we can be everything we failed to be, we can do everything we always wanted to do, with people we have always wanted to have. We write poems, because our poems are the only place where we can lend ourselves an infinite sky. In between our stanzas we are free to fly, we can communicate through the idioms. If words had wings, may be we writers would never write.
© Sagnik
