Syed Wajahath

I never thought that I would someday be thinking about you and would be writing this. IG : syedwajahath55

[syedwajahath55]

She is a girl of dreams

She is, but a dream / She is, but a life / of lillies and roses / of sunshine and moonlight / of waves and rains / She is, but a dream / of magic and madness / of honey and lavenders / of butterflies and birds / She is, but a dream / of everything that exists in fairytales / of everything that defines beauty / She is but a dream people wish to live for

[huesofnoor-deactivated20220402]

petrifying my thick inch skin

yelping inside my consciousness

preying upon for blood

i stand under the sunrays

staring at the oblivion

at it's infinite infinities

jerking a little

the power they hold

moulds my sanity a little

my sins are crying dead

they are folly

and filled with

melancholy

[macrolit]

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[syedwajahath55]

[syedwajahath55]

Is death of parents a freedom? A freedom we do not seek?

All our lives, we live in fear, as a prisoner of our own thoughts, thinking the unimaginable, and freeing ourselves out from the worst of thoughts.

And we live freely until death embraces parent of someone we know of.

We grieve with them, comforting them that its going to be allright, when we know it isn't.

For a fleeting moment, there is this thought that their worst is over, that they now are free, and that we still are to continue living in fear, as a prisoner of our woŕst thoughts.

A Freedom we do not seek

[metaphorformetaphor]

“He felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he did not know where he ended and she began. He felt this from the agonizing sensation of division that he experienced at that instant. He was offended for the first instant, but the very same second he felt that he could not be offended by her, that she was himself.”

— Leo Tolstoy, from Anna Karenina (Penguin Books, 2003; first published 1877)

[syedwajahath55]

He was her, in ways he was himself