Scribbling:
Tragedy of
Wanderer:
“There was no
escape anymore; being made in-charge of his own solitary ruins, he was supposed
to make a castle upon them, for his kingdom of solitude, with bricks of lost
moments lying here and there as if pebbles of no significance. He would have to
choose them one by one and raise walls around, for they might let him hear
echoes of his whispering heart, to which he has failed to hear mostly till now.
He would need a bit of light too, once inside. He could use rays of broken
thoughts hanging here and there upon the mists, for they carry several colors, he
remembers how he stole some of them while wandering around, passing by those
left-over huts around that sea-shore. What next? How about a bit of fire, to
keep him warm, maybe he could use fireballs made of scribbled paper which he
has been keeping in the pocket of his shirt, placed just above heart, for it
was what has kept his heart warm, though his skin carries scar of several burns
deep inside but he never took it serious, for his heart felt better in their
warm embrace, though burning.
He thought about
what else he might need in that kingdom once built and locked, forever. Oh! how
could he forget, he would need to scribble still and then he smiled, he needed
nothing else, for He has his skin as paper, blank as a pathway walked a long
time ago by a pair of soft feet and numb ever-since. For pen, he had those
fingers who probably knew more than him, of scribbling, for being the first to
hold that flying kite, first to touch and feel the tension of the thread, first
to be robbed when they got to hold his own head, cut and bleeding. For ink, he
would use his blood, before it dries to be dusted and red being his favorite
color ever since he has learned about colors, fascinating and hypnotizing, he
has felt its power once upon his lips and has carved for it since then. The
thoughts made him shiver yet glad, filled him with a kind of aderline rush in
his slowing nerves.”
Tragedy of Wanderer:
He thought about what else he might need in that kingdom once built and locked, forever. Oh! how could he forget, he would need to scribble still and then he smiled, he needed nothing else, for He has his skin as paper, blank as a pathway walked a long time ago by a pair of soft feet and numb ever-since. For pen, he had those fingers who probably knew more than him, of scribbling, for being the first to hold that flying kite, first to touch and feel the tension of the thread, first to be robbed when they got to hold his own head, cut and bleeding. For ink, he would use his blood, before it dries to be dusted and red being his favorite color ever since he has learned about colors, fascinating and hypnotizing, he has felt its power once upon his lips and has carved for it since then. The thoughts made him shiver yet glad, filled him with a kind of adrenaline rush in his slowing nerves.”
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