“At one magical instant in your early childhood, the page of a book—that string of confused, alien ciphers—shivered into meaning. Words spoke to you, gave up their secrets; at that moment, whole universes opened. You became, irrevocably, a reader.” –Alberto Manguel

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Tuesday, January 6, 2015


“How relieving is it to expect being invisible rather being ignored. I guess every time they ignore you, they should tell you that you’re invisible. That hurts less, ain’t it? But then there is comfort in pain too. For all the scars you feel in your heart seems invisible, right? It’s like air, you feel it but can’t struggle enough to see. In the process of being invisible –I want my mistakes, wrong decisions, failed attempts and unsuccessful results to go invisible first. How important is it to hide things, people don’t like. Being invisible is being hidden right? I guess so, but what happens is exact opposite –all your mistakes, wrong decisions, failed attempts and unsuccessful results comes visible in bright light first and all your hurt, pain, agony, and suicidal blues goes invisible and stabs like north wind. I guess; if I have to make a list of ironies of life –one life will be quite a less span. I would require multiple lifetimes and for that I have to die multiple times.”

Dear hush little baby;
don’t hide under the bed,
turn on the lights;
crawl out instead.

Don’t jump off the cliff;

or slit your nerve,
turn down the razor;
for the happiness you deserve.

Look at your wrist;

all the scars that align,
will fade away in time;
honey, do not resign.

You wish to be invisible;

for every time you’re ignored,
with no source to entertain;
feel like dying of being bored.

Lost track to the time;

and you long for the snug,
absence was a beautiful thing to feel;
no count of the wound it dug.

Scars on your heart;

lies unexplored and unknown,
the made up laughter;
brings pain when you’re alone.

Skip your plans to hang;

or pull the trigger,
don’t surrender to the fire;
or walk into the river.

For the pain that is invisible;

has lost count of the hurt,
has become a habit now;
of the attempt to dissolve in dirt.


P.S. My creation, please do not copy | Copyright © Protected | Image: Google

P.P.S. Work Of Fiction! 


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