Who Killed The Sunshine?

You are invisible in the daylight, you no more write like yesteryears, you no more socialise, you no more feel the raindrops, you no more create magic with your fingers, you are dead but your fragrance is still alive. Where’s that silhouette of desire? Where’s that lively gaze? Where’s the moon? Where are the dancing stars? Your soul evaporated with the ugly wind, you are burnt, you became ugly, you became the rejected shadow, you no more whine in agony.

Poetry is a curse you are born with, prose isn’t giving you goose bumps, you aren’t from an outer space, you are surviving amid the ever populating human kind. The sunshine exists outside your corridor, you are arrested inside your unmusical mind, and the fast moving street lights aren’t actually moving fast, it’s your illusion that’s pulling you down. Your writings aren’t absurd; your insanity is your strength, the madness makes your world better, those tangent words keep you alive. Writing is all about expressing something you are passionate about; it may not hold any meaning still it may look so profound to others. You love to see the birds flying back to their nest before the storm, you love to get drenched in the hallucinatory rain, you are no different but your philosophies won’t make any sense till you express them in plain simple words. The absurd prose is a curse, metaphors are hardly understandable. You are no big intellectual gun.

When you forget the art of writing, you should probably start dreaming, you should start scribbling things that make no sense, things that are no less than fluff. You are there, you are finally approaching towards the sunshine, you are slowing moving out from that dungeon of no hope, you are recovering, and you are surely moving forward.

The sunshine inside you needs time to rise, it won’t be possible without sweating in the candlelight, it won’t touch your arms if you don’t dream about the silky stars in a moonless night.


Image: Dreamfiction


Author: Pallav Gogoi