Wandering scribbler..

Of all the words I say to you and all the words I write, Not one is word enough to say what you mean to me, I make my bed with words at night and hope to wake up with the right lot of words or phrases.  My mind storms with all these words and I struggle to sleep at night. My heart just beats and pounds, my hands tremble as I dream. This the  recurrent dream of separation comes back and awakens me with lines of sweat on my forehead. I cover my face with my small hands and just listen to my beating heart. This voice speaks of all my past histories.  You wake up and ask me,  -What keeps you awake my love? -I can't find the right words. -What words? - I am writing you a letter for the time when we won't be together. -Pray why won't we be? -For when I die or disappear or vanish without a trace.  I said with my voice shaking. - Do you think I'll let you go away so easily.. And even if you "disappear" as you say you are going to. I won't need a letter to find yo

On this particularly insignificant rainy afternoon I was talking to this friend about eyes when he remarked that my eyes speak of helplessness.  I didn't take the discussion further as my head kept spinning with the sudden weight of the word "helplessness".  I hate that word, just hate it.  But I see it too, eyes that are helpless without any hope of light. Did he just see the darkness in those eyes? Eyes  like the little child who saw too much too soon.  They speak stories of troubled nights and Valium.. Of eyes that remained strong, amidst tirade of abuses hurled at her. Eyes that know not how to hide the weight of all the pain that did not melt into tears. Soulful eyes that speak a language not everyone can understand.. This particular line from the song written as a tribute to Vincent Van Gogh,  With  eyes  that watch the  world and can't forget . Like the strangers that you've met...