There's a girl with tan lines, stretch marks and the cool scars, who is not afraid of curling up on the floor and laughing because she's more comfortable there than her bed. She has more postcards of places she wants to visit than pairs of shoes and more hugs to give than fights to fight. A hugger and a fighter, she can say so much when she doesn't say a word.
Sometimes, though, she sees the metaphors around her and translates them into poetry. Life is her muse and this is her story.
(A/N- Because life is my muse, and I am the one that translates its grief to art.) This is a story, but it has no ending.
I am a storyteller but until now, I’ve let someone else
write my story.
I’ve let someone else map my beginning, middle and end,
Write the message so that all I had to do was click ‘Send’,
I’ve let someone else tell me about the life I should live,
I’ve let someone take what I was not ready to give.
This is my story and here is the beginning.
Once upon a time, someone told me that we were excerpts from
a story that hadn’t been written yet.
It was one that I hoped I could write someday.
For it only seemed fitting that a story would create for me,
A world I love more than this- free from the ‘labyrinth of
But, Reality destroys the fairytales we believe in,
And this was no exception.
Like a stream of lava trickling down the rocky boulders of
what Life tried to build,
It engulfed all in its path, word-by-word,
It truly takes a maelstrom of emotions to make you believe
It takes the Universe to embark upon a mission- to give you
hope and take it away,
To give you love and replace it with nothing.
Suddenly, Cinderella’s glass slipper hurts, like most closed
Flying becomes a reminder of your phobia of great heights.
Magic spells are now curses cast.
Poisoned apples and Death are the ideas that last.
But how do you survive the fall from the cliff someone
else’s words wrote?
Your wings of faith melt into waxy nothingness because the
sun burnt a little too bright, not because you flew too close.
Not because your arms were willing to embrace it with all
that you have, not because you were afraid of the indentations that followed.
Can one attempt to justify the impact of another’s arrows,
If pain and suffering to one brought peace and belonging to
For, the other knew no home but the love of words and the
fury that came with it.
Words faded with time, and so did I.
The dried ink of memory became a daguerreotype, nestled
safely in the comfort of a chest drawer.
I look at it sometimes and revel in the beauty and
simplicity of the story that it could have been.
But I let someone else write it.
I let Life write what Love should have written.
I let it become the penultimate domino to twice shy, once bitten.
I once believed in poems that rhymed.
I believed in fairytales that made the heart sigh.
I believed that the ending came only after the beginning.
But, I know better now.
The curtains are drawn and the remnants of monsoon sunlight
come streaming in,
Reminding me that this is not an end to the Idealist.
Reminding me that I simply have to believe in different kinds of
Not all poems rhyme, not all endings begin, not all stories
Some words simply need to find their way back to us again.
And they will.
They will brave the waves of time with which they had once
ebbed away from our shores and bring back to me a parchment and a quill.
It is time I served the sentence for my victimless crime.
It is time I give back Life the poetry it gave me.