An anecdote.
Sometimes you don’t have to bleed to write actual poetry. Many
of the best exemplars of poetry are said to be the children of blood on cold
tiles. But some poets aren’t sad. They aren’t hurt. They aren’t broken. They are
made out of sunshine.
Light of the kind that eradicates darkness from the darkest
corners of the mind. The sunshine that sources from hearts that yearn to find
creativity and color in everything. The mind looks like galaxies constantly
colliding and birthing new stars which is enough to make you dizzy and your
heart race.
All that said. Poets can be the creepiest kind of people. Most
of us. Like me. Thus I find myself staring a girl right now. Don’t get me wrong
but I need inspiration for a poem.
Under the arch she
sits with infernal devices in her
hand. Her eyes are wide with admiration but her mouth doesn’t smile or frown. Her
hair flows over the side of her face, with the smoothness of silk, shining
sharply exactly where the sunlight hits it. Her eyes are still wide open. The
brown of her iris seems to swims in the white, bringing out the contrast of her
feelings and expression. I have passed her in the hallway a numerous times so I
am aware she smells like lavender with a faint hint of old books.
A tall boy passes by her. She pursues her lips into a tight
line and blushes. Her cheeks quickly fill with crimson red and her gaze turns
down to the floor. Oh well that’s what guys do to you. Her book limply rests in
her hands while she turns away to avoid his gaze. She smiles openly in the secrecy
she thought she had but I see him noticing how she steals well calculated
glances his way.
After a while I see her talking to her friend. Her hands
move in excited circles but yet her expression only ranges from a slight smile
to a straight line. I’m fascinated. The aura around her seems of madness but
what she shows is not even close to excitement. I can imagine her sitting by a
tinted window, knees to her chest, sipping tea and staring at the rain with
faithful admiration. I know this because she sits under the arch of the
building, doing the same, every day, with the same love, dedication and fascination;
to the rain and her book.
So I collect my books and walk over to her. I try to straighten
my hair and try to look as composed as she does. As my shadow falls over her
book, she looks up with a confused expression. She then looks at me blankly,
but her eyes are full of anticipation. I imagine her as the subject of my
poetry she will never know I wrote. But yet I can’t ignore the realization of
the fact that she is made up of restlessness like us poets and her thoughts
swirl around like planets at a furious speed of creativity.
“Hi I am Nikita”
“Neha” she smiles innocently.
I realize she is made up of sunshine too.
Few Words- New friend. Made through creepiness.
