The Blues

Dear Diary,

It's been a long while since I talked to you, well precisely it's been a while since I actually talked; I had been alone, with just the quiet four walls of my room around me. I need some sleep as I had been up almost whole night yesterday, I wish the sun was a late-riser like me at least for somedays lol. I have slowly begun to be able to process the sound of silence. I sometimes marvel at the frailty of speech, how sparsely words are able to imitate feelings, how often we communicate but not really converse, how often we hear but not really listen. And therefore it's easier to write. I remember one of my old friends in school saying that a writer can be afraid but always fearless to write. And if there is a depth of my soul deeper than what my own verses can dig into, it's just an illusion. The venomous reality that stings as snake bite is the same one transcending into the elixir of life under the feather touch of the blues of the ink in the inkpot. It's all I ever owned like the birds own the sky, it's not their home, but it's still more than that. A potted plant in a balcony corner, sunshine and rain sick, my roots are tired of holding on to the soil, yet I stand if not firm then shaking. It's where I belong and I know I'm at the right spot. If I fall down and I have no hands to pick me up, I still have two of mine. If I'm pricked by a thorn, I can still smell the goodness of a rose. My fears haven't yet forestalled my musings and they wouldn't ever for the sake of my life; for what would remain of the night if it's dreams escape, as death from shadows? And the moment I'm robbed of my dream, the same moment I'm robbed of my heart, an arm and a leg, the same moment the sky would be robbed of all of its stars. One can't stare wishfully at a starless sky, one can't find paradise anywhere but in paradise.