The writer who couldn't write

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Words. They run around on the inside of her skull. Random. Haphazard. The moment she tries to string them together in a pearl necklace of a sentence, they scatter all around. Silently. Some run under her bed, some go into hiding behind her bookshelves. She knows there is no use going hunting, they were stubborn. Much like her. They would reveal themselves only if they felt like it. 

The cursor blinks on the blank screen. She feels claustrophobic, her hands grow clammy, slick with sweat. She shuts down her laptop and tries to drown herself in her books, in the faint hope of finding some form of inspiration. But again, they escape her, the words going above her head. 

Is this the writer's curse, she wonders, that when the muse disappears, along with some memories, her words would betray her as well and leave with him too? Or was it her punishment for loving too much too soon? For now, the only option that she has in order to make a semblance of her life is to go back to where it all started. To go back home...

Rendezvous

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Her hair is shoulder length, she wears a backless lemon-yellow dress. He's dressed a little more formally, in a full sleeved shirt. Are they on a first date? But the way he cuddles up to her, gently caressing her already smooth hair, kissing the strands, tells me otherwise. 

He clicks her picture on his phone, finding a reason to scoot over closer to her to show it to her. Are they colleagues ? Having a fling? My mind rules out the possibility that they are married. 

I wonder what the future has in store for them both. Will he be the one to do the dumping later on? Will she be the broken one nursing a broken heart or vice versa? Will there be ego clashes and betrayals in the near future? Or will they perhaps have their happily ever after? 

And the hopeless romantic in me wins, over the realist. For once.  

W - Wren

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my words roaming freely no italics no punctuation no rules in this game what an eye sore you are thinking yes I can feel it but just this once let me be unconventional what I have been scared of surprisingly it feels good to be raw I don't know if I will ever attempt this again just like how some things in life must not be experienced twice it always loses charm the second time you see just like how some books must never be attempted a second time the magic you felt coursing through your veins is maybe a distant memory but one that refuses to fade in a world that follows rules to the dozen let me break free for now at least and in this moment I feel invincible I feel free

Linking this post to the A to Z Challenge.

Q - Qurbani

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Have you heard the sound of a heart breaking? It's as silent as the first drop of rain on your cheeks. It's as soft as the morning dew under your bare feet when you step outside at dawn, while rest of the world is asleep. 

Heart aches, heart breaks. Does it all feel and sound the same? Is it the sound of melancholy when you sit alone watching the rain pour down? Or is it the deafening silence that replaces the presence of a loved one?

For me, it was the sound of my front door banging shut when you left. It's tremors were felt when I saw you go back to her, the one who broke your heart. It reverberated through my entire body like a physical ache. I knew right at the beginning I could never replace her, but I was there for you, it was the least I could do.

You wanted more, you always did, I was never enough. For you, I was just a friend. You can break my heart all you want, you know I will always welcome you back home when you need me. But tell me one thing, a temporary fixture, was that all I was? A place to linger, but never stay? 

Linking this post to the A to Z Challenge.

Universe

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Stars woven in her hair. Black tresses tumbling across her shoulders. An abyss in her eyes. Be careful when you look into them, it's easy to fall down into its bottomless depths. She holds the entire galaxy in her open palms. 

She is mystery and darkness. She is also flashes of pure brilliant light. 

And when she burns, she's pure fury. She will either make you or destroy you completely. With her, there's no turning back. You can only pray that your soul remains intact. 

Ruins

Image Source: Francesca Woodman

I was a ruin when you met me. An ancient one at that. You fell in love with my cracks, the dust gathering around my soul. But you lost interest, you always do. 

Like the time you craved perfection, when you knew from the beginning that I was not. In fact, I'm scared of shiny, new things, unlike you. Things that have no soul; unblemished, untainted. 

My roots go deep. You prefer to admire me from far, yet, you will never make me home...

Linking this post to Magpie Tales - Mag 303. 

Crimson Red

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You slash me with your words. Invisible wounds inflicted. I bleed. My blood spilling in between my fingers, from the pores of my body and flows into you. A silent sob escapes my throat. 

You dip your pen into me, filling it with my life's essence as you repaint me in your words. You are applauded. How beautifully he writes. So much of pain in his words. How lucky is his muse to be loved so deeply.

But I seem to be the only one who notices that all your words are stained crimson red...

Claustrophobia

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She was never one for small talk. 

So, heard you quit your job. Why? Weren't you getting a hefty package? I thought you were happy. She felt like running away from the intrusive questions thrown at her. She had escaped the confines of her bedroom in order to seek some solace from the loneliness that haunted her. But standing here, in the midst of a crowd of people she hardly knew, suddenly she wasn't so sure. 

The walls started shrinking in and she struggled to breathe. 

If it was a few weeks back, she would have found the whole situation funny. She would have gone to him and they would have laughed about it over a glass of wine. Now that he's no longer there, there seemed too much time and very little to do. 

Stepping out onto the balcony, she lit her cigarette and took a deep breath, the smoke filled her lungs. The place was deserted, other than the smoke that others had left in their wake, she was alone. It was a beautiful night, a moonless night. Her thoughts wandered over to him again unwittingly. Poetry, she mused. That's what he had called her. Her body was his canvas and he wrote sonnets on them. Till one day he probably realized that he had outgrown her. 

The walls expanded. She could finally breathe. Away from the swarm of people, alone with her thoughts, she felt a little less lonely. 

What's a beautiful girl like you doing alone smoking in the dark? A voice from behind invaded her thoughts. She turned and fled. 

She was never one for small talk.