Fiction (“The Missing Poet” Series – 1)
The days are passing fast and quite, while the melancholy has become a part of me. Unattached and unnerved, I seem to have accepted the sorrow with no intention of letting it go.
Finding, creating and simulating thoughts in the fear of detachment of the thing I had already lost. The smile has become nothing but an illusion which has sensed the paranoia and appeared to satisfy the urge to move. Like the ocean water’ climbing higher with every high tide, the mental self has only sunk deeper and deeper.
Getting older with the passage of time, I find myself still young who is caught in the world long forgotten. There are many doors which might lead me to happiness, sparing me the grief but I find myself too attached to the melancholy that I have made it, my own.
Do I find physical state so unknown to my mental self, like a divide between the two worlds, one real while the other that I love? I wonder while sitting near the window, trying to ramble my thoughts to get a key to the problem.
Lying in the bed for hours
Watching the sun rise and set,
And hoping to rise as the day before
But only to fall without a fight.
Pain becomes a fear
In the event of lost hope,
And mind becomes its victim
With a door less to escape.
One night it rained
Till the water was over the head,
And I wished it’s the god’s voice
To take me instead.
I let myself drown
Till the fear seemed no more,
And as I awaken
I found myself to be no more.
Next day, the headline appeared,
Heavy floods had ravished the place,
And the causality count was zeroed at one
While rest were declared all alive.
They smiled, he smiled,
after the weather cleared,
And they went back to their houses
While he went back to his.