Art Of My Life

My own voice makes me feel alive. It gives me warmth. Listening to Music doesn’t give this warmth as singing does. Not able to sing my own or others’ compositions or hum the tunes equates to me not feeling as if I am in my body or feel alive.

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Aching

It aches to stay away from you. You are still a thought, but now with an essence. It aches to think that I will not think of you. It aches to wipe off all the possibilities from my mind— the fights, the resolutions, all the hugs and warmth—everything. It aches to believe that you will always remain just a thought.

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We all fall down

It’s been a cold, sleepy day. The voice of the rain are calming down all the storms within. She is thinking while chewing on the nib of her pen, shaking it in between her fingers in mid-air while taking pauses in between, careful enough not to let the ink spread on her lips. Her eyes glare through the thin air above her into eternity in a way as if they are enchanted by the beauty of something which is the most beautiful.

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