A blinding snow-white sheet warps the mind. As much as she wishes to slice the canvas apart to enable clearer vision, fatigue is constantly on the guard to slay her down. Too much tiredness, overpowering spaces unfilled, hollow sadness. How she wants to let hopeful souls down, how she dwells on what-ifs. Neverending is the non-directional narrow path. The only detour is turning back.

What is wrong?

No. What is ever correct? The angst that souls are banished to hell for human nature, karma in Christianity, gypsies casting future in crystal balls.

I'm questioning God. I think I'm growing to be quite an atheist.

She tries elegantly to tap her cigarette to rid off excess ash, masking her fidgeting. Smoke clouded her mind, fogging sanity. The constant refill of nicotine dosage was the only aversion she could apply.

I cannot fathom the outcome of my dreams, those haunting dreams that daunt upon slumber. I cannot imagine a day, when all that remains beside me are sheets of bed and lingering memories.

The cold weather seems to be revolving on a pun. A language turn; with chinese tracks crooning to innermost dilemmas.

Placing the world in your possesion on the table, and walking miles from it, the bondage releases. You heave breaths of burden, yet tears are still on the verge of imploding down supple cheeks so vulnerable.

Soon, the ones you love so perpetually, leave you in a vast space of defeat. Sandcastles you earnestly constructed, collapse at the slightest howls of wind. Still, hatred does not replace love; it never can.

To You, Marion

Weakened fatigue-stained sails, that took on journeys to extreme ends of the globe. A thousand noble miles it would venture to keep sailors safe and unhurt. The boat's sails were created, to brave through wicked weather, to defy the winds and hurdles, to question nature, to comfort sailors and passengers in the voyage, to guard off fears.

You were my sail. And I, your boat.

The boat now has new passengers boarded at ports, shores and lands, but sails unchanged. Forever. Friendships never discard trustworthy sails, sails that were carved out to be a boat's favourite company. Your love made me bloom from a wilting bud to a fertilising rose, and now, reminisce will provide me strength.

Fragile hands clutch the pages of the book of nostalgia. Remembrances bite like needles in the chest. Fallable phony. A heart can only pine for as long it prevails amidst the painful longing. Death descends upon nightfall in structures of uncertain shadows that trace history. The flames of cremation mark the finale of a send-off, yet, a portion of me burned along with you.

Just three more nights, and realistic imagination will replay, haunting consciousness and dreams. Cruel anticipation.

July, the month of melancholy and woe, absence and departure, three years, one everlasting affinity, Marion.

Riddles and prose bid a better voyage,
up fairy hills and glittered road paths.
Casts away clothed valleys and the folded caves
and unpicks them into magical dust.
Till two souls meet again in perfect coincidental intercept,
till fellowship makes its reunions,
Soulcleavage will be the angel of goodwill's return.

When the coming paves its journey back into scripts,
hiccups of the heart will tie to a knot
while demons shove into fraught.

There and then,
my soul will be longing for company;
With eager and anxious hearts awaiting, too.
Just a while, just a short while.

So long, farewell.

The river's currents wash swan's ability and energy, discarding it like filth on its astonishing wings. Its wings used to shine from its smoothness, and reflect its whiteness; now all that is seen of swan's wings is a grotesque figure of mess. Breaths of struggle transform into lethargic surrender. The aching swan flaps its wing and merciless waves crush its bones and disfigured its self. It drowns in the bottomless river, ending suffering to a silent pitch.

If you go, there you may hear helpless cries of a swan. Some claim, that the swan was seen in its original form - magnificent and leaving many in awe of its elevating grandiose. But others say, myths will forever remain myths.

Continual audacity at free-flow dispense; images that surrounds her wheel themselves at a repeat mode. The tracks spinning blends in with the liquor swimming through her veins. Together, they boogie to the rhythm of the club beats. They let the disco lights hyponotise their consciousness, along with the booze. With arms waving in the air and with their sweaty bodies in sensual brushes, adrenaline escalates.

Around her is a myriad of commotion, yet, the resounding silence within her pounds louder than the beat of her heart. She begins reminiscing the days in the arms of comfort, catching re-runs together on the couch.

She wishes to replay all that was lost.

An eagle suffers from disability in flight with one wing; the eagle is unable to soar into the planes of skies. A desert lacking of water cannot dispense a rainfall; the desert cannot halt dehydration and drought. A seedling cannot develop and sprout from its ground if there isn't sunlight. Similarly, a hand cannot clap because it takes two.

A man whose legs are chained with boulders cannot trudge another inch forward, because all that swarms his mind are thoughts of turning back as a free man, letting off his gilded cage and heavy heart.

Will we see another second together, say, next month?

Grappling with the mesh of entangled threads, affinity tries to weave itself from the clutches of wayward outcomes. The mornings are awaken to a complete piece of mind, yet the nights finish with stings of tears in the eyes. Felicity tortured as a fugitive of its enemy. Numbers of times wasted bit-lipped, trying to contain real emotions when facts throw callous daggers at what is deemed unsympathetic.

The day arrives, and she will discover extreme sorrow of memory, long passed-on recollection of the only soulmate that has her humanity retrieved. Up high amidst the heavens, she is there intently watching over, silently prophesizing better returns in the next life.