The departing

They walked, hand in hand, oblivious to the prying eyes. A young couple deeply rooted in love. They believed in a future together. He tried with all his might, tried to secure his life right, everything around that one girl who meant the world to him. She whispered something. He couldn’t fathom what, not like he cared much. He was too lost in her beauty to grasp any sound. He didn’t want to coz all he cared was her insane touch which created ripples in his heart. What a woman!

She wrote in an almost uninhibited way. A woman, so sensitive, so dear, wrote in a motion, much like her own spirit, which often sought pathways for expressing her emotions. He was drawn to everything about her. He took to the pen to feel closer to her. He took to her words, to her feelings, to her ideas as easily as one takes to life. But wait, she was his life, wasn’t she? Serendipity engulfed them day in and out, and their young love blossomed to dizzying heights.



We make mistakes, often incorrigible ones. The society though identifies our position as individuals, is a mean place to live in sometimes. Our tough exteriors are often mistaken to be the ultimate traits of our personality. Our outward show of violence makes us sinister, cruel, and uncivilized. He was a guy in love. He couldn’t have been dreadful, he couldn’t have been cruel. Just an extreme act of violence to avenge the insult didn’t make him threatening or portentous. As much as she would have wanted to stay by his side, the darn society wouldn’t let her.

The wedding bells reverberating, the whole house was in uproar, he could see, from a near distant, the chaos that had engulfed the house. Finally realizing that future is not meant to be forever. Tears streamed down his face, as those were all he had. But, she was still his life.

He longed for her sight, the beauty that had once encompassed his entire universe. He longed for her sound, that one voice which tingled long lost memories in him. He longed for her touch, the one brush of her hand, the one caress of her fingers on his face, the one embrace that filled him with warmth, the one coddle that soothed his entire self, the one kiss that would remain on his lips forever.

Love never dies, the people do get isolated, to faraway distant places, but the love remains. Death is, but, an end to her physical presence, the end to her breath that he had always felt, despite the distance. The love remained. You see, he was a man disdained in love, but he was in love, nonetheless. Death might take people far away from you, but she never belonged to him anyway. This way, he felt closer to her. He was being waited for. And tis, the only way, the two would unite. Someday for the love to be one. 

The Reflection.

Now traumatised by silence,

Engulfed in self pity,

All that her reflection showed her,

was her pain,

her anxiety,

her submission.

How could she stoop so low?

"Pull yourself, woman!", he'd scream.

She'd let him ruin her wholly.

There wasn't a part of her left,

that wasn't screaming for help.

The mirror reflected her angst,

her loss,

her standing.

Her heart was breaking,

bit by bit,

into pieces, that she couldn't assemble,

into parts, that were lost forever.

Her innocence, her charm, her spirit,

all dead.

She was vulnerable.

What was she waiting for?

For someone new, to come and break her completely?

She had lost once, not again.

As she drank the last remnants of the bottle,

it was peace at last.

The reflection was dying,

and so was she.

the other one

Blank spells,she called them.
Had ignored them all this while.
She couldn't face the realisation,
that there was someone else inside her.
She was meek,a weakling.
The other one was headfast.
She could barely speak,
strongly aware of her lapse.
The other one came out,
in moments of agony.
When she couldn't express,
the other one would take over.
When she couldn't cry,
the other one would scream.
When she couldn't reason,
the other one would rebel.
The other one,
made her feel like a trespasser.
But how could she be one,
it was her body.
She felt herself tearing into two,often.
Emotionally depressed.
Expressively void.
She couldn't fathom,
what the other one thought.
Often blamed,
for things she hadn't done.
But how could she explain,
it was not her.
Her soul tore her apart.
The agony was too much for her frail mind.
She thought,she'd set it free.
And the other one,
could well,go die.



P.S.the above poem is strongly inspired from a novel called *Sybil* by Flora Rheta Schreiber about a young innocent woman,going through the trauma of housing sixteen multiple personalities.