When the Pen and Pain Collide

What is more serene than an ode to nostalgia, scrawled and sculpted from the sleekest of pens on a pallid sheet of paper? It may be a mangle of words, a coalescence of inscripts, beautifully jumbled and arrayed to perfection.

We aptly play with words. Words that are construed by the eye, deciphered by the mind and felt by the heart. While at all those levels and senses of perception; does the chronicle of angst ever truly unfold…?

Here, is a reflection of the concourse of souls assembled on this platform. This is a symphony of our battles; both won and lost.

Yes we are different. We are unique. We are driven by mirth and melancholy in ways that are mildly maniac; for it weren’t for the tumult and tranquility of emotion that breed in symbiosis, our words would be inert. Our characters would be abject, and our stories base. We are precariously aware of pain, pain that accompanies each breath to summon life into our existence. Pain is the progenitor of our words, and the vessel of their ambition.

We grew up in an imperfect world questing for perfection. We were bohemians, striving to be conformists. Our minds were prisms that absorbed colorless raw emotion, while the world perceived spectral delineation among all feelings known. Our vision was in a kaleidoscopic conflict with our hearts, where our patterns were etched and dimensions were known.

Nature has been our ally since inception, our courter and our comforter. Our liaison is intimate yet poignant, as we have rummaged its facets not known to exist. We have found solace in its somberly confines, and lost lucidity to its mythical elements.

We have cradled the earth in our bare hands and sojourned in solitude midst of a storm. We have heard and followed the melisma of silence; we have counted the stars and conversed with the moon. We have withered and fallen from branches at the equinox, and been reborn with the first tendril of spring. We have drowned with each sunset into dark oblivion, to imbibe each hue into our porous souls. We have painted each dawn on a canvas so mottled and yet run short of hues for our mind’s depiction. We have frolicked with flames and danced with the waves, we have set many fires, and cried many oceans.

We have dwelled at the dichotomy between fact and fiction, often times hazing the intricate divide. We have turned real people into sterling characters, devoid of the flaws we chose not to see. We have searched endlessly for phantasmal perfection; in humans who err, and bodies that sin.

We have loved a love beyond our own fathom. We have endured a loss that consumed our souls. We have fought myriad battles with our own demons and live with scars we are too proud to show. We have walked away and never turned back for our will was too strong to falter; and even though we carried each fragment of our flesh… our hearts have never moved on. We never grew up from being the child whose endeavors remain unrewarded. Some tears still shed and some are parched, in reverie of our first nuances of defeat, and betrayal. We never understood the conditions of love; we are anomalies in ardor who are defiant to change. We have loathed none but our own existence, for it’s infinite flaws and perpetual failures.

We are writers, living with a beautiful curse. A curse that siphons gore, from our anguished hearts, to feed a sea of comely expression. A curse we lay out across the evenly spaced lines, with words that are conceived and birthed by our souls. We live in the verse; armor with prose, and contend with phrase. Our words are our legacy, our shield… and our weapon.