You wanted me to be a faded ink stain in those worn out pages of ruffled memory,
I was not born to be a blot, I was born to weave magic.
You chose to cross a desert thinking we wouldn't cross paths
But look, I can still blow through your skin in a heartbeat.
Time, you thought would wipe my memory
But your heart knows not what it is like to forget,
I am a blister to your wound,
A lingering smell clinging by your skin.
I feed on your soul, I tread on your dreams.
I can cross mountains, swim through oceans
And yet not be seen!
Moonlight streams through my hair, the ocean feels my heartbeats
I walk through sand ribs, soft,yet enough to disrupt your existence.
The empty shells by the rocks would hum you my story
Come someday leaving the world behind, would you?
"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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