Visions with Eyes Shut

Marking black dots on the dates I don’t write is a habit a year old. Yes, I’ve actually completed a year writing thoughts, feeling words, and not feel certain thoughts or write words.

The calendar that adornes my study represents nights, not days. This brings me to a doubt still lying in the ‘Irrelevant’ column of the list that supreme power keeps to remind her of the questions she needs to answer. Fuck, in the desperation of writing I just extra-complicated that poor sentence and added this unnecessary one. Apologies, Sire! Yes, the question was why do people relate the absence of light with negativity and fear, when its the night when almost every individual actually lives. Its the day when we do what the society demands, at night what the heart demands which for some is just sleep. Not a problem, your life mate! But then, the supreme power doesn’t owe me an explanation to this confusion, just like other doubts like how can a human enjoy raping not just bodies but even her soul in the act. Who knows the supreme power isn’t a female, when her gender is the last thing we need to worry about? And dude, never annoy a female, says every male and history.

Coming back to the self talk, the purpose this sacred ritual of inking dates serves is to remind me the days I couldn’t live. Writing makes me feel like I’m actually taking out time to do what I thoroughly love, just like a particular activity, including devouring pizza slices, makes you feel.

There were four consecutive dates flaunting the black marks.

I sit down again tonight. Those four recent marks were not because I didn’t write. But because I couldn’t. And tonight too, the possibility seemed bleak. My mind again wandered to where you are. ‘You’ is bound to make an image pop-up in your brain-boxes. My ‘you’ too is someone I see with closed eyes.

How beautiful are our silly imaginations with ‘you’! We know they might never become moments or memories, but just a potential fictional bestseller.

I’ll still stand dumbstruck if posed with the question that why is it ‘you’ who haunts my mind every moment I free my head of petty thoughts. Everyone will. Its inexplicable if you consider words as the medium.
In my head I gift you lovely flowers every day but then confess you’re more beautiful. I imagine you next to me, excited, while driving through the night to destinations unknown. I kiss you everyday to remind you that it wasn’t just your spellbinding body that I’m next to you today, but the admiration for the authentic you only I’m lucky enough to know. In my head you even love me back. In my head.

These are the ghosts of vision that haunt my mind every time it finds time to. But I love these ghosts. At least I’m alive in some world, mate!
Waking from the trans I was in due to these amazing songs blended with a mug of black coffee and thoughts of ‘you’, I realise that its already time for birds to chirp, humans to regain energy to speak, cars to honk, and our lives to enter monotony. The glance at time is enough to send the Sentimental Guy back to sleep, and for the ‘not-exactly-me’ me to wake up.

These are mere visions of a teenaged human who knows how to use pens as wands. If the wand worked, and you could relate to it, tell me I was successful.


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