Pain is an orchid of excruciating agony stemming from the withered roots of hate. It is that feeling when your eyes hurt to blink, when the rage soars through your nerves like the great flood sent by Jupiter, decimating the pulchritudinous shores of peace. It is the feeling when your diaphragm aches every time it collides with your lungs. It is to silence your feelings but also feel them stabbing your heart.

Heart, a treacherous little thing, it palpitates forsaken beat to your life. It syncopates with this bleak blood of mine waiting to stain my wrist carmine. It is to see indigo upon closing your eyes instead of a tangerine red. It is to be drowning but be secretly addicted to it. To be swallowed by ink-black darkness, silky against your burning skin. It is to part your lips, anticipating either words or blood to come out. But all you taste are your tears. It is to dampen your purpose and paint it lilac. A colour of naivete amongst a sea of dangerous blues and violets.

How wondrous it could be if we could forget. Forget all wrongs. Yours and Mine. And peacefully wait for gold angelic light to stream in through our windows. To be clouded by clouds. To see heaven. Every breath my vision narrows, time stumbles and I forget how to breathe. But I did remember to pen down these words on a blank paper, indigo staining this bleached white cellulose with sultry words of pain.

Pain because a tear rolled down my cheek; the 106th one this hour. My brain wants to think. Think and shatter this silence. This eerie silence, horrifying or calming, I cant seem to decide.

The world frictions my pursuits. Because at the end of the day, I am just an artless, naive girl. It is excruciating how oblivious humans are to their filthy obsessions and psychic imbalances. Their mortal council is at war. They are pieces of broken mirrors glued into the wrong cracks. They are a raging waterfall denudating the liberal souls around them. Stunting their growth while ignorantly continuing their toxic pursuits.

It hurts to see that their delusions have become so vibrant that they now surround them like a glistening, conceited bubble. What trauma bonds them? What heartbreak destroys them? Which terror’s chains are they bound to? What evil whips them? No one knows. All I know is that they are stuck in a dark tunnel with no visible ways of redemption. Every blink is a moment gone; I could’ve caught like a tangerine butterfly and lived in serendipity. My legs yearn to run and soar across the sky like a free bird devoid of any shadow lurking on it. To see the world from a new point of view. Every corner filled with a new surprise, a hidden delight, and the refreshing ignorance of the ingenuous.

It is hard when your only intrinsic voice tells you to be wrong. To be sculpted by your wrongs. It is hard not to fly away.

Time, an endless dilemma. A choker bejeweled with glories and sins, that keeps boundlessly looping against your neck. Time is to know. To know that it is perfectly alright to take some time. This bloody race to succeed massacres thousands of souls each day. There is always a diamond in the rough. Think of people as material vases adorned with plants of their own. There is always that one unbreakable vase decorated with succulent and vibrant flowers of success and splendor. We are all sideliners spectating in awe at their mere existence. Only to find out that this ever-radiant, mother-of-pearl vase is in cracks and pieces glued together with gold. The ever-noble, intellectual minds are glued to the broken pieces of their horrendous mistakes. Their sins and demons hidden by the varnish of time.

We are all broken vases, unsolved puzzles, dilapidated machines, patched embroidery, and unfinished paintings. And we come together to form this beautifully ugly word called human. Humans are works of art, created by a creature called time.