The world where we belong holds insurmountable poetry. How much of writing does it require to let go of this agony, to come to a standstill of realising there's love everywhere and not in a single human. My father sometimes bakes or cooks for me, telling how he couldn't buy what I wished in a blue moon. But, this affection has run out long, and the doors don't grease through my tears. I stare and stare and stare and another chance at love falls apart. How much writing does it take?
Sometimes, when mum camouflages our distress in laughter and the shrill voice of affection, it rings a call to hope or evasion or tenderness or ignorance? I do not know.
When you look at a stranger, it all comes back, amidst the unfamiliarity of the person. Our similarities are the same fever of different distress. But, I forget, what is and what was, when I reside under your touch on my trembling skin. And, come to a standstill of what if? How much of writing does it take to understand love and its consequence and realise people who deny love are the most affected by it, people who never believed in love, would never reside in agony to deny of its existence.
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Notes on Surviving
General FictionEvery day is a gift however, there are people like Alice who changes many times in a single day because each day is a rabbit hole for them. Likewise, Moor has been surviving each day with equal tenacity. Although she has many privileges to her livin...
