Darkness and its Sanctity

A room, dark as night

Dark doors, slammed shut.

Dark windows cracked and shattered,

Dark sheets that smell of yew.

A dark lady, her companions dark thoughts.

Of wilted flowers and shriveled fruits, she wrote,

Of crushed hope and of broken souls.

Beside a lamp, she wrote.

Her tresses, wild and unruly.

Twisted freedom plagued her mind

Twisted bonds and twisted ropes,

That bled her writhing arms.

Thorns that dug into her neck,

And that pierced her soul.

In pain she found solace, it became her nectar.

Wrenched away from home and from any humanity

She sat by the light,

Writing, her mane flowing like a waterfall.

In Those moments, filled with darkness

She found her darkened heart.

It bled by the second,

For an estranged love,

For a smashed pride.

It bled onto the tattered gown,

Onto the silk, that once was pristine.

It bled for the pain she saw,

For things that might have been.

For smashed dreams.

Bound in chains,

Bound in shackles she wrote

Her skin raw and fingers bleeding.

She found solace.

In broken dreams and crushed hopes

She found her peace.

Where is my mind.

For the past few days, weeks even, my existence has been a chaotic, unconsolidated mush of unrecognizable emotions. Things that I never felt before as a schoolgirl. Fear, uncertainty, a sense of disconnection to name a few. It struck me today, that it is all a reaction to change. The first few months of college seemed like someone had opened a window in a room, long closed, and let atmosphere in. it was so new, so fresh and most of all, so SO welcome. Met new people, forged relationships, found myself and lost myself again. In my almost-two-years here, never once I thought I would want to go back to That time again. That I would crave that half an hour I got while travelling. That half an hour which was entitled to ME. Not to the teachers, not to those wretched exams, not to my family even. In there almost-two-years, I have had plenty of time to spend alone , doing things my way. I have voraciously thanked my stars for the life I lead and the life that my family leads. And then suddenly there was a void I did not how to fill with work or boys or friends. This void shoved itself head first into my stomach sometime back. I don’t know exactly what triggered it, but then I started enjoying time alone more. That was all I had, a string of moments of weakness in the dark, where no one could see them. And then I would wake up next morning and be that cool brave person again. That strong person who is above all the lesser emotions. This was my ‘enjoyment’ of alone time. This void I tried to fill with music. It gives me satisfaction but it still leaves me hungry. I started reading God of Small Things, and all my memories from That time in school came rushing back. when I was nursing a broken heart, and growing ever closer to my soul mate. This book reminded me of how there were such less people in school, and you could walk to another room and find someone who had read a similar book and start talking about it. College has been a rush of so many lights, thoughts, people, emotions, dresses.. that it is over whelming. And scary. I thought I adjusted very well. No one adjusts well.

Ceremony, rituals. These are the things we hold on to when change sweeps us off our feet. Mine were writing, reading books, finding joy in little things. And when I come here and see people, the maelstrom is so strong that I'm losing grip on my rituals. These rituals are also, in way, building blocks of a religion. They are the pillars, whose strength will be called upon by a crumbling temple. Rituals are pillars to a crumbling faith. I'm losing my pillars. When that fragile mask of societal norm shatters and when you are laid bare for everyone to see. When that knot in your throat becomes bigger and starts to choke you. When that butterfly feeling in your stomach turns to a malevolent lurching of a raging river. In those moments of weaknesses, I cant find anything to hold on to. My writing is as stale as dry wormwood. By the grace of any cosmic entity that I can care to acknowledge, I have everything anyone could wish for. And yet there is a fear gnawing at my innards. A fear of losing it entirely perhaps? No. it is a fear of losing myself completely and become a machine. It is a fear that a burning throat fears when chilli passes through it. A friend pointed out that in all my conversations, I use the first person with ample generosity. Is it because there is someone inside trying to hold on to what I was? It’s a fear of running out of my essence. That fuel , that makes me who I am.