Patterns On My Skin

I’m a petrichor dream, leaving behind patterns in everywhere I go. The pretty patterns and the ugly ones, balances the heavy and the light ones. There is the lightness of the pleasure in carrying them, while they are getting buried deep into my skin shaped existence. 

Sometimes I feel like an old tree, with my roots spreading a bit too slow too delicate that this world cannot contain. Sometimes those intricate patterns do not feel like a part of me either, as if they are a different being, as if they have a life different from myself. Don’t you notice, how those undulate under my footsteps getting crunched in the Autumnal bliss, being a stone in the absolute nothingness of this winter and as the summer comes life blossoms on them, growing out and growing in? 

And then I have those hideous patterns on my skin. Those that run hastily up and down, bends and stretches at their will and sometimes behold an identity that I cannot perceive. An identity that, break mirrors in the bare luminescence, an identity that stoops its head low, as silence passes by ever so silently and an identity that you approve of as long as your sanity permits. 

I am an array of crisscrosses and infinite spirals that spiral into a tightening suffocation. I am a circle someday, that sometimes stretches itself long to make its edges sharp. How many times I have tried to touch the two curves in a straight line, yet my skin give up in fear of disintegrating yet again. I let it be at their will, as they maneuver between my limbs. 

I have tried to look at my hands carefully, the sweaty palms, the circular joints that join in a cone shaped stack, as if layers of the past have deposited right there between the folds. I bring my face closer to my palm as I spread it out like canvas. How surreal how incredible it has been as I witness, the canvas turning white as if I am inviting to paint on it again. I wonder what do we really offer when we spread our palms for someone for someone to hold? Yet the moment they do, there is more crisscrosses more brush strokes than they have ever seen before. 

The bending patters, that bend and gnaws in silence. I guess they have grown tired of my hysterics. They define how my hair stands every time; a train passes by just like that. They remind me I am a mere spectator looking down at my feet, as they scramble for a solid ground. They know more of me than I know them, and maybe they wish to break free if they can someday. But how can I tell them, those restless bending euphoria, that they are nothing without me just some deceased piece of memory waiting to be burned as someone wails from distance. I wonder if they are just a part of me, or I am a part of them? 

And then there are those patterns that are formed by wounds we savour and wounds that we are afraid to touch. Some run deeper that the most. Yet everyone leaves a sharp contrast behind. A puddle of whiteness in the sea of shades. How the colour changes as the sky catch up the crimson before making it bright. You see the crimson isn’t crimson at all, but little bit of everything that fades eventually. I press my thumbs on the witness as it reminds me of the crimson. The deeper shades branch into rivulets as they protrude in a wish of bleeding again. Yet times change just like that, as my skin conceal the patterns by drawing over them, a million of criss-crosses and a little more. 


Copyright Jumbled Letters.

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