A Home Of Words.

The glitter of hope, being the only ecstasy in frowzy swollen eyes, that stare questioningly at the personified ‘life’ of the beholder, of mine.

Chanting, every beat of my fading esprit, begging with every last breathe to the history, not to repeat itself.


For betrayal is so hard to conceive any further. My pain outbursts, leaking through minute pores on my skin. Then, death seems to be a way, easier, to escape.

But reality doesn’t alter, not for the sake of any pure souls. Humans do alter their character though. Unedifying silence howls so loud. Those ‘unspoken words’ of your destroyed bondings, become hard to be unheard, harder to be forgotten. The burning excitement to discern, diffuses, turns unfazed.

Every inch of the whimsically flowing blood blocks me down mentally. A proper functioning body of flesh, for whiles, runs unguided, unsecured.

When belief cracks into pieces, the core inside, resembles a cold corpse. The body becomes much unwelcoming for the soul to reside any further. When the only being, I trusted to be my shore, denies to procure me. And I, like one helpless ebb, gets dragged by the vicious currents of realism. The big waves of its, crushes me inside its giant fist, and I gradually disappear from the attentions of my belongings. The inside of mine remains invisible, intangible to a world with brains working for materialism. I get imprisoned, in a familiar place that tortures, I get drawn back yet again to life, but an undeserved one.

Unfathomably however, that’s life, and we’ve to accept it. The law of truism needn’t worry about our approval for that. For fate is almighty, and nobody gets hidden from its sight. And hence, perhaps, the way life is being played, is the way it had been scripted.

But philosophies always appear froth to my melancholic self.

And being no great soul, I’ve been hurt. I’ve cried in the edges of the darkest corners. I’ve had been lonely. I am clingy, dependent; but lately not on humans. I’ve rested my frowns, my tears, my head full of disgrace and grief; but not on shoulders of skin-covered meats.

I’ve but taken shelters in the coldest of winters under the warming roofs of holy words.

Words: believed to be written a thousands of year ago.

Words: being inextinguishable fire in the harshest of hails.

Words: only meant for the believers.

Words: pious.

Words: magical.

Words: deeper in sanctity, coated with peace.

No matter, how much people offend me, but these words have been my nest, my home. No matter how far my energies make me to run, when my wings are tired, even the direction of winds blows me here. No matter how many beautiful colours my eyes sight, but with the first tint of dusk, my heart craves for its warmth.

And so, I am, and will always be a relentless espouse of these words, garnished on the faithful pages, weaved to those with threads of religiousness, in an era where time wasn’t old and fragile.

These words have kept my portions together, even when every bone in my body had been crushed and blown in nowhere directions. These words are coaxial to my relief, to my medications and the procedure of healing and empowerment. The lessons, these utter, are but carts making me wander into a world, mystically. Where all that resides is unbelievably touching truths. And I’ve been more of a true passenger of these words, and I’ve lived in them more than anywhere else in this ephemeral universe and  have emitted infallible homeliness. These words, my dear, have formed constellations as a sigil of lightening the roads to march.

Humans do leave. Humans, at times, are misplaced. The other times, perhaps I am laid in an interstellar, between the most faulty stars. Oh but these *words*! These words are the right place to stand, to stay. They never reject, have made none to be felt as a foreigner.

The ineffable chrysalis of these words could never be beholden by any of my rigmaroles.

These: the words of pietism.

Words of the Lord, of spirituality, of blessedness. Sprinkle a pinch of your precious time, dear human, let it to be thawed in the flames of asceticism. Let it know what it deserves.

There’s this transcendental piece of land to discover yet, there’s this magical magnet within us that attracts, let it not submerge breathlessly in the spooky attachment towards materialism. Surrender not yourself, just because so do other humans. These words are charismatically awaiting you, awaiting us. Let’s not stop exploring, ever.



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