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The letters are sealed. They were scribbled with the extremest of emotions. They can tear your soul apart. One might lose oneself to these letters. I fear running my hands over them again. They are laden with everything I ran away from. The voices. The whiffs. The smokes. The laughters. The roars. They've taken root in the letters.
They are high on dread. Possibly, with a posy of giggles. Since the day I started writing letters to the unaddressed version of you, I've seen me adopting everything that was around. From the scarps of frayed mats to the stopped clock. In the letters, I've clubbed the frayed edges of mats with the stopped hands of clock. Do you know why? They're akin to me. To you. To us. Once enthroned. Never dethroned, but sidelined.
While writing, sometimes I fell off the main strip. In the midway, I'll start running behind the deafened voices. The voices! They belong to the past, don't they? So, for every hiss and boo that was made, I scored out an empty page. For every scream shrieked, I used to strike a written page. As time passed, strikes fell in number, drastically. That makes me wonder, if my letters swallowed my past. This alarms me. Nearly.
I've been stacking piles and piles of letters. But never dared read them aloud. Not even to myself. For, alphabets are more powerful in the form of words. And words become the master when brewed with reality. These letters were fermented with the darkest of realities and the brightest of truths. These rectangles (no circles, no cuboids) are like the black holes. You can't just try for once to fall in it. If you do, then it's forever. If you're destined to, then it's all up to time. Every shove and pull are preplanned. You can't avoid them, but there's a possibility of 'replacement', isn't it? #Past#yqbaba#longform#powrimo#poeticwhizkid
