Continuation

 

I can’t pen my thoughts anymore—they slip through my fingers like sand grains you try to grasp desperately. For what else in this whole wide world demands a line, a verse, a sigh, a thought, a breath besides the space between your furrowed eyebrows? Your subtle blush at the corner of your lips? Your struggles through a sentence? Everything that held my breath. That fragile thought is my muse. What other sight matters enough to warrant words? What other feeling begs to be felt?

“Zamane bhar ke gham ya ik tera gham, ye gham hoga toh kitne gham na honge”—whether it's the sorrow of the whole wide world or your sorrow, once this exists, no other sorrow remains. The sorrow of love has consumed me so completely that a world full of bloodshed, hunger, violence, and assault fades to my eyes. The guilt of privilege finally drifts away as I become ignorant and entirely absorbed in my own sorrow.

White little hearts on coffee; raindrops lingering on flowers after a shower; window seats in crowded buses; dim-lit rooms with yellow lights; the color white; bright flowers; female friendships; films; favorite lines of songs; symmetrical frames; rooms full of posters; personalized bookmarks; the joy of finishing a piece of writing or summoning the will to paint once more—all those little joys that have carried me through the years—none manage to claim a word, a thought, a glance, a pause.

At the beginning and edge of every passage I dare to frame, you cling like a leech.