Spinning Planet

This is a failed attempt to write something. A misshapen pleasure that sometimes go out of its way to find pleasure in unknown places, and make a home out it. The vast stretches of sky that sprawls in tiny, sometimes leaves the words behind as it moves forward with this circling planet. I wonder how many times I have really completed a full circle, as every time something has crossed paths with me, I have run backward along a thin borderline, marking the sentiments and melancholy, yet ended up somewhere between nostalgia.  

Someday, I had to run fast through this biting cold, and someday my feet had enthralled themselves in a slow tiredness as it seemed more intriguing than the persistent pain of the winds crackling and dying upon those watery skin of mine. I have flowed with a brisk uncertainty, as everything around me has fallen like the autumn, and sometimes there were blossoms of the first spring, that was muted between my steady breaths, just like that I would end up again and again amidst those reticent words that I so much want to leave yet they are everything I have. 

Today was an absurd day, as I felt my world spinning, between the hollow sockets that once contained so much so that it had overflowed up to the brink of nothingness. And then slowly once again it was time for me to move forward with this spinning planet. The spin that agitates within your head, yet you deem it as something sublime and something serene. I was okay to see my words moving backwards, as I held on to the steady gaze that fell flat after sometime as the last letter of my identity went below the horizon and all of a sudden, I was no one to this oblivion. It was a strange kind of emptiness where you know you have nothing to hold on to anymore. The words which you so very claimed as yours was now someone else’s as all you know is only how to articulate the features of their body on a flat surface and then all of a sudden withdraw your breathe as if mourning has choked the better of you. I was filled with dread as my conscience bit the dust. 

A hard run, as my feet was shuffling back and forth from one reasoning to next, yet the horizon seemed far ahead of me. I was on my way to reclaim the words that I have lost, and the words that decimated itself in the dread of never being written again. Yet after rummaging through and through the selves I found myself in the garden of penury. There I was holding a photograph, of you and me as the thin film of dust veiled your imperfections into a melancholy at par with what I have felt before. There were too many words all at once and no order could have made meaning out of it. I wish I didn’t venture alone, only if I knew I would end up disappointed yet again. 

Copyright Jumbled Letters.


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