The smog blinds me obstructing my vision.
Yet, I gaze at the sky,
I see it in pain.
It speaks of no promise, it has got a dampened soul.
I look for it's reflections,
The lone writer struggles over his typewriter,
His cigarettes reduce his hopes into ashes.
And the air captures his whispers,
"How do I let her go?", he scribbles for the third time.
The creased bedsheets by his window speaks of her lingering presence.
He smells her in each inch of his skin,
Yet, why does the city not leave him at ease!
He looks at the lanes, devoid of hope
He lights another smoke, pulls in puff of despair
He was rotting in that city which had lost it's soul.
I pull my hair together and hum a tune,
I think and I rethink until my thought overpowers.
I stand on the lanes leading to his home,
I look at him parched by his window.
And I free him from his past afflictions,
I free him from her lingering smell,
I free him from his tormented thoughts,
For I, I carry the soul of the city.
Do you see me?
"Read between the lines", I heard our professor say. We were in midst of a Victorian text. I looked at her point blank. She had spoken about something which I had no clue about. "Ma'am, would you please elaborate? ", I tried framing this sentence in my mind but my introverted self overpowered my inquisitive soul like everytime. I hopelessly waited for an explanation. Ma'am started explaining about how beyond the surface meaning of any written text, there lay a wide plethora of meaning which wasn't explicitly stated. She talked about finding a void between the written words and our imagination, that void which shapes our interpretation. That explanation opened doors to my perception of reading a text. It wasn't that I had never considered about the possibilities of meanings that lay coated in words until then, but, what perhaps I lacked was to look for that void where I questioned the layers of meaning, where I put myself in those layers of wo...
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