The Damned Poetry
They say, “Butterflies are proof that you can ride the carousel of darkness yet still walk out into something beautiful.” But I was reluctant to agree.
You live inside the phenomenon that Newton was never able to discover.
You remind me of the sea routes that Vasco da Gama wanted to discover before malaria choked him.
You are a reminiscence of the artworks set ablaze by Nazis because Hitler hated the maddening passion and aflame ambition of Vincent Van Gogh.
My mind started repeating your name like a broken cassette of a Hindu prayer when the Tumblr post read,
“Bats can hear shapes. Plants can eat light. Bees can dance maps.”
You see, you are carved with the noticed yet unseen phenomena of nature. You are made of carbon sprinkled with the sheen of a half-formed, rough, homogenous diamonds that the miners of Kimberly never dug.
I don’t see you on a Halloween night or a Christmas morning because I find you in a Thanksgiving dinner which people spend by eating ice-creams instead of turkeys.
I don’t see you in twinkling fairy lights or glowing lavender scented candles because I find you in LED street lights that envelop me in their shimmer of safety as nights go darker and the speed of my strive, faster.
I don’t see you in waterparks or beaches because I see you in swimming pools.
You make me recognize my dreams, why I always wished to sit at the bottom of the swimming pool, why I needed to push my limits to achieve all those wild things that whispered fables in my ears.
When I think of you I don’t think of oversized hoodies, leather jackets, comfortable pajamas rather if clothing was an aesthetic of you, it would be the blankets straight out of the dryer which I dirty constantly with cookies and cream ice-cream.
If people romanticize you with empty perfume bottles, fractured coke bottles, pink sand and mangoes too sweet that they are on the verge of rot. I would fight them with my literary devices and the Napalm bombs of speech.
You see, you don’t remind me of Beauty sipping the vodka-spiked by Melancholy, that would be more wrong than the existence of bacteria on Earth.
This is because I see you in moments that make me smile.
I smile when I see you in the little girl who spills water from her bottle because, “Ma, if I don’t water the flowers on the road then, how will the baby sparrows wear flower crowns?”
I smile when I see you in a person laughing with such joy that they look like a retarded walrus. It is funny how humans laugh because they are unable to contain joy.
I smile when I see you in blurry videos of people having fun because they were so busy living in the moment that memories became nostalgia and nostalgia a memory.
I smile when I see you getting flustered with compliments.
I smile when I see you in a differently arranged art class every time I go inside, the new pencil doodles created every day, the half-finished easels and projects hanging to dry. There is something continuous about it.
It reminds me that how static yet continuous you are.
You are my favourite kind of existence that makes me feel alive.
Hell, you are my favourite kind of alive, the favourite kind of human.
Your handwriting is the sound of your voice. It is powerful enough to decipher your thoughts, softly rough with cursives yet fast enough to miss the dots in your I’s and the lines on your t’s because you are too concerned to spill the ink decorated with your thoughts.
If I could give an aesthetic of weather for you, it would be the breeze blowing when I was driving my bike in a chilly evening, seven years ago or when I entered a warm room after shivering in cold. You are the breeze kissing my hair when I sit on a transport bus with an ajar window and gaze the clouds.
Look out, the sky is forming shapes a unicorn and a map of Rome, then I see you in a house-shaped heart, you remind me of home and trust me, I am homesick for a place that never belonged to me.
People read poetry and centuries later they forget the lines. It becomes a binary code of titbits of metaphors lacking emotions.
But people like you can never be imprisoned in words and lines in the notebook because you are sorcery that deals with the Unspoken yet Spoken Language of Universe.
You are undefined, unforgettable, a name in the Universe so powerful that people have to roll their full tongue to pronounce it, they will remember you.
You wrap my mind like a purple butterfly that lives in moments and still smiles with her unseen facial muscles.
But butterfly, it is a moth yet it is special.
The butterfly is a moth that does not chase lights because it has grown to love its wings.
You are special.
You cannot be defined in words. You are beyond poetry.
Damn! I thought poetry had the answers to everything. But then, I met you. ~Enigma
A little note:
I know I have been on WordPress a lot lesser than I ought to be. I do not know whether there are people who still look forward to read from me or not, but what I know is that I have befriended some of the kindest and most beautiful souls on WordPress. Those who took time to ask about my well-being or are perchance waiting to read from me, I owe you people the most sincere of gratitudes and the warmest of the hugs.
This piece is really special to me in terms of the personal content expressed. I truly hope it is something refreshing and new for you guys. Tell me how you feel about this because this is probably the first time I have posted a personal piece on Enigma.
I hope you guys are all happy and healthy and I also hope that I am able to post and write more for this little place.
Thank you for always supporting me!
Enigma 🙂 💜
PS: Little is always a lie. Don’t fall for that word again. 😂
Picture Credits: Google Images
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