It takes imagination to write fiction and pain to write poetry
Just last night I was browsing through My Book of Dreams which is basically my ideating notebook and I found this. Scribbled in pencil across two pages. And I was transported to the night I wrote this.
I wasn’t able to sleep that night and the power had gone off too. I clearly remember it wasn’t the heat that was not allowing me sleepy bliss but the anguish inside. I had tossed around in bed till 2.00 am and finally decided to get up and do some blog work. It was then that I realised that there was no power. I lit the candle, opened my notebook and this is what poured out:
As I sit staring into her depths,
Dark and cold at the core,
White and bright on the outside.
As she lights up the world around her,
Fighting the darkness for all around,
She burns and wanes inside,
To light up the world outside.
She isn’t dark because she likes to,
She isn’t cold because she desires it,
But because no one burns to light up her world,
No one hugs her to fight away the coldness.
At times she’s tranquil like a one legged hermit,
At times dancing to the waves of breaths,
Peace or calamity,
It seems burn she must,
For that is her destiny.
To stand tall, head held high,
Even as she burns inside.
To spread light,
Even when it’s dense dark inside.
To give warmth,
Even as she shivers at her core.
I look at her and then reflect,
Our journeys when we seek are so futile,
Hers and mine,
For some are only destined to give,
She and me,
Chosen to give and stop at that.
That’s when the tears will stop,
Hers and mine.
She cries white, mine I don’t know,
The colour doesn’t matter,
For it flows when we burn,
But burn we must,
For we are chosen to give,
Beyond our wishes, beyond our smiles.
And burn we must.