Words are powerful.
Silence is underrated.
Which of the two mechanisms should be chosen to express things you feel deep inside that dark little cave of yours? Like only the cobras understand the mystery of that hissing jargon. Things you wish had an identity, a point-blank form. Things that run around and around like a cyclone that may devastate your imbecile mind for the umpteenth time. Don’t you think your conscience will fall short of words when you unfold that sacred flower vase of yours in the shape of mighty heart?
Sad little Google! You can carry numerous words upon your digital shoulder; but can you carry the emotions dancing with their unclad bodies and closed dreamy eyes at the foot of each syllable of his name?
So, I woke up today with the fleecing clouds on my ceiling raining another yesterday. Yesterday the clouds had a colour; the colour of my purified soul. The gleam of pale monochrome irked me for a whole month. So, I painted a rainbow on the clouds with the buried crayons. His colour.
He’s the grumpy clock that won’t get stuck at 2 am for my sake. He’s the last sip of coffee that lures me to the kingdom of clowns and unicorns. He’s the anecdote that remained draped, disclosed to me for my pleasure.
What colour should he be?
No, he’s poetry; and verses are achromatic.