The Flame

 Dear diary,

It has been a long night and I feel zoned out. Ah poor me! I wish at this moment I could sit on the rooftop and count the stars, and a kitten climb up to me and adopt me! It's less hilarious and more thoughtful than it seems. I've been trying, trying as hard as I can but alas, these are turning out to be the "down days". An ice-cream popsicle to lick, shady glasses and sleepy afternoons- these are what summers "used to be" but not anymore. Had I been a kid I would've probably been sitting with the mares of my summer holiday homework or laughing till death at my favourite cartoon characters. Now all I can do is to reminisce about my golden girlhood which seems to be a long lost tale, and I don't even pine for it now, I pine not for candies and softies anymore but to be extremely fair, "love." Albeit I have it in abundance, from my man who loves me perhaps as hard as anyone could, from my dearest family. I have not many friends but still a few. And when, in this world of pageant shows and downtown drive-throughs, of crowded racketed bazaars and seaside coconut trees, when did I get so lonely? My past traumas hallucinate in my dreams every night and that's what I woke up from right now. And whom can I tell my story? No one. For the people who love me, I can't see them wound up for the cause of me. So I pen them down here, that's what writers do:

O' my heart, my heavy heart, how would it carry a world of woes within and yet not weep? How do I engulf a fire and not watch my heart burn to ashes, spread among the winds as mournful ditties? O my heart, weep not for farther away, there is a raining joyance which calls you, there lies a land as red as yours. You have powers; you are made of love, O' heart, and that's the flame against all, all, all the darkness. And O' hands you carry not the guns and swords, but the pen; on your face not blood, but ink. Cause words have the power to save or to kill, and if I ever walk this city again I would not let my words bleed, I would let them heal, let them bloom, let them breeze. From heart to heart and soul to soul, kindness can yet reach, because it's not made of strings that could be cut off, no. It lives, till eternity. For sake of this immortal kindness to the world and to myself, I decide not to kill for kill, but to live all the more. For what would pain a battlefield more than dried blood?