I've caged myself in these subtle melancholies of life. The everyday trifles between these two inner voices.
The walls of the cage listen to me. They know me through every minuscule.
They have seen me live and die ...resuscitate and then again die a little more. These walls are my silent consolers. I confide in them.
The tapestries on the ceilings have painted me in yellow ecstasy and crimson pain. Only the curtains have hung closer when I cried
The floors have been stained with charred papers laden with verses of love and yet,never complained. The bedsheets soaked my miseries, my pain while I whined day in and day out...
Ask the pillows they've learnt by heart, the chronicles of nocturnal cursings. They have tasted my blood, seeping from my veins to theirs in the death of the night.
They've known me. They've grown me - from a girl to a woman.
Human beings no matter where they go in the world, will always seek home: in places, in people, in things, and in food. Perhaps because at the end of the day one wants to be vulnerable and yet are loved. We search for a setting where not the flesh, not the bones, but the very soul beneath it is adored and cradled like a newborn, squealing, and needy for love. As long as I lived with my family, I never realized the worth of home, unless one day, I was out in the wide world, alone, apprehensive, and being indoctrinated by societal norms every single day. The only pockets of peace that I was left with was a 'chosen family': a farrago of strangers that I met, and before I could decide to love or hate them, I was entangled with them like wollen strands in the mesh of a new warm cardigan. I have lived with a plethora of strangers, loved them, held them close in my most vulnerable moments, and then cried bitterly when we parted. After a time, both parties agreed on their fate and mo
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