If ever asked- who are you?, I’d shamelessly admit what makes me, me. I am short quotations that I scribble or re-write in my head when I watch a movie or read a book. I am phrases that touch my life, so much so that they make me want to cry. I am people I have met in my past and the ones I look forward to meet in future; for it is only because of them that a part of me evolved. I am not Tuesday 2 PM, but mostly a Thursday 10PM; a little redundant, a little willing, a little annoyed, a little longing, a bit of yearning, a bit of guaranteeing, somewhat undignified, a little sought-after and a little worth cherishing. I am the corner of pizza that is offensively left on the plate or maybe the bubbles that one blows while drinking.
I am old-fashioned stuff purchased from a flea market; the colorful rings that I often buy but never wear, the rudimentary details that I see when I purchase things, however they are only present to be indelicately lost in the quest of a bigger picture. I am midnight hunger and morning sickness. I could be a fizzled late-night guarantee yet I rather am early morning amazement. I am an enormous wail, yell, yell amidst the night or may be somebody crying in the corner on upbeat days.
I am inebriated on madness to the point of repeating mistakes. I am an err, blunder, repentance, regret and an apology that I owe or bear. I am an inkless pen on a nude canvas. I am colorless black in a moonless night. I am lunar light that sparkle your face; yet reminding you of some longing. I am a counterfeit wager, a lost appeal, a wrecked boat, a constant dream, a scentless bloom, a vapid feast, a heartless companion, a heedless buddy or perhaps nothing whatsoever.
But what I am and whatever I will be, is an aftermath of what I was. I was a sprouting thought, a confine with no limits, a mirror with no reflection and a house with no entryways. I was a sunny winter day or a blustery summer night. I was fermenting espresso mug or hot plate of muffins. I was a promise for perpetuation, for no restrictions, of madness of love. I was, once everything that I thought I would be, everything my eyes guaranteed. I was at one time the obscurity of a corner and the flickering of a thunder.
I am a thought that is evaded on an excessive amount, a yearning that has been acknowledged with a smothered ability, I am a subsided feeling and a resigned benefactor. I am anxiety of your future, an ethereal entry, a corpus written jokingly, a brontide amid downpours. I could be the sprawl of million little stars in your sky; however I rather am a moonless night. I pick it that way. I disguise it.
Anyway, I am basically a well of lava blending in the ocean.