She accepted the pain{owing to her schmalzy self along with the betweenwhiles physicality of mental heaviness life offered} as she justified it by the support received by her family that could afford amenities. A shelter, on top of that a room that she could call “mine” ,meals as many as she wills, water replenished with minerals, space for lanes of books +the books that will go into the space, and a life that is taking toll on her faith. Denying culinary delicacies at restaurants, tasting waffles and pancakes by imagining while eating salad, cutting on that cold coffee she loved, Exoneration couldn’t find a home in her heaviness.

She goes about doing her everyday chores, at the abode. In the wake of kraas , sees the trees give a hint towards the dying sun. And as she lays in the bed , there it comes, glistening like dusty silver, without notice, and she continues to click- “next episode”. She can’t look at it, even from the edge of her eyes, but its warmth is enough to reveal the longing she has inside.

Through the screen, Mac says -“shove it up and stick it out”, and the tear has made its way through her hidden scars ,all the way through to add the acerbic gust, charring her lips. The eschars, though invisible, are somehow begazed by the sheets as she lays all my worries to them, with a chiaroscuro of “thought inks” splashed in the head.

And then it’s,

Get up/eat/chores/loathe/chores/eat/the tear journey /sleep/repeat.

But wait, what is this “longing “? Of love, of home in a house,of purpose , of bright blues and greys, or just the self?

She doesn’t have any clue about that either , do you!

Ha, Longing. Some corner of existence seeks solutions.

Solutions?

The mirror,she internally crooked,in front of it’s polished complete finesse.Despite her qualms,being the irony symbol. For once,if she could pick that hammer,throw it at the reflection,look at {hers+mirrors} pieces shatter,take a breath…

Again take a breath

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And sew it all up with some kindness..

Crochet an heart or two with coal,damn the argent+future for a while..

Look at the crows shake the damp branches in the shelter of the once “golden” sky .And hope for it to fix atleast something.Just something…If only her fate agreed.

She cannot recognize her shadow that lurks behind anymore , as she stopped going out in the light that often. The night was always a safe haven until the skies decided to give her slate greys with no moon or stars to wish upon, no birds to ignite any sense of freedom, no planes to turn to for that transient escapism. Scribbling all the frust untill the nib gave in ;bereft of the willing to seek, inking couldn’t pacify anymore…But it all came back to inking..

As she crumbles under the weight of her own words,her moon on a flimsy stuck to the wall guides her to sleep, writing it will all be okay in her dream.

‘But she’d still choose to think through typing fingers,however unattainable the convalescence..’
© untappedAn..hj