Almost five years now, and I still have not replaced you in my heart. I never mentioned the word, ‘heart’ and you know why, I only have my mind and a fast asleep soul. My heart, well it never found recovery after they took you away. I have read so much and will continue living a life that you wanted me too live. I know it is our secret, but no one will read this and understand who you were, or how you put my broken pieces in order. I wonder, looking at the green, if we still flare across the globe through our senses and completely escape the cries of the world.
I still remember, I was just 12-year-old, when I held your hand while playing with my sister; we were of the imagination that your hand would leash spells out in the sky. We enchanted our innocence through feeling each sense of your dead branches. I found myself a super power with you, your colours were my emotions and when the wind used to hit you before the sweet rain, I could almost cry with the best emotions of encountering the cold of the immortal. I never found the connection that kept growing everyday, that I used to cry in front of you and now, that I write in the dark with half of the world asleep in the melody of the illusion, you come back in my mind to wake me up and cry again.
I lost another battle today, and I could fathom nothing, but the one thing you left for me. .Yes, I do write my friend, often about the same things we discussed back then and believe me, you were right, no one gets these write ups, except the rain of course. The rain pours over every second I live and make me breathe through the desert.
You left me only a blank page and never answer the left doubts , asking me to wait for the rain. I was often lost with the tormenting storms and droughts within my psychic. I have scars from those calamities and even today, my blood is over flowing my vain and burning my sight, the only difference is, that I have felt the essence of the rain now. The overflow goes onto these words and then create a unity of time and space for me, a point to escape to my stars.
You left me the gift of poesy, through your silence. You became a part of me, that never betrays. A part that sings a silent rhyme within me; the rhyme is lost into colours and my sight is also a blur because of the agitated mind of mine.
I can only feel you, when I write a note that does not concern the universe of the man-made objectivity. I talk to you through the virtual ink that bleed out of my senses. The ink never reaches a conclusion, but it never stops, it runs through the parallel dimensions of the world. Now what do I do to calm it down ?
The ink made me fell in love with a beautiful woman, she has been with me mending the ink to reach the crevices of my scars, I heal with her essence. But, I lost the battle to her today. The earth is revolving too fast, my friend and I have lost you.
Your existence gives rise to a cosmos for me, when I spill the ink outside the purview of a reader, it seems as if I have felt the air and the voice the birds that used to surround you.
How do I tell them, why I write and where it comes from. Even the meaning of all this? Shall I keep the lie alive? About how you were only a tree that rested in front of my room?
Either ways, I cannot explain how you made me the person who writes a crisis of existence. You left me unanswered and I will leave them.