The Art of Grief—What It Takes to Continue Breathing
Three after four on the untimely clock—your heart throbs and the sheets melt. It is dimly lit outside and the moon is just about to sink on top of your lifeless body. Looking for one more reason to continue breathing—empty libraries and burning desires upfront, it is too late O human—precious human.
Waking up in a state of desperation, the mirror in front of you asks of you—not to weep like you did last night. It pleads and it begs—but you are not even the person you once were. As the dead walls look at you, filled with the same expression as they did every single night—you want to get up but you cannot.
It feels like all the weight of the world has gotten on top of your chest. The slightly scratched silk on top of your pointless skin—it feels sensational. Options are running out like it did yesterday and the night before that and the night before that as well.
Shine—of light that will never come and morning is nothing but a beautiful life. In craft, of numbness and nymphomaniac towels, you touch yourself without the feel of it. It’s gone, Juliet and the whispers of heaven—now that the garden is sprouting with spontaneous flowers and thorns—but mostly thorns.
It is as if you are the only thing that is stopping you from being happy—and your lungs and your punctured heart—they too no longer want to be with you. Memories of papa try to pulsate some light in—but the tragedy of eleven, how much on earth do I miss that human.
The skies are in betrayal and the sonnets want nothing of you. Nobody or nothing to console—pretty roses that are almost dead. And as you get up from your melting skin, you see a light ignite—three rushes inside your mind which will stop right at the next tock. It was as if happiness was true and the most pathetic lies ever.
You try to lift your body up, blue—bold and black. Night which is a deceive and the diary which you cannot locate. It was just beside you when you left—but the emotions may have dissolved its sheets—taking away the ashes of pain with it like you never existed. The pen which climaxes concrete blood—to hold and write one last poem about your misery.
The line is getting tired and you cannot even think of anything to write about. Eyes filled with dry tears and the sponge emitting lava on top of your chest. It is a cheat—but you cannot even escape it this time. Little songs erupt inside your mind and it reminds you of Juliet—the crave for touch and affection. How much on earth---all you ever asked for was to be loved but no girl ever looked at you that way.
It hurts, I know but as the morning kicks in such poignantly —you look at the stars of the morning only to be marveled by the moon that has not left you. Is this the end—?
To the conviction, a little light sound of thunder inside your chest and you are presented with the sheets of the same night over and over again. There is no escaping it and now you know it.
-Yogesh Chandra