If I would carve a being
Out of all the words
They have said of me
I would be terrified of her
When words were given us with a choice on syllables to utter
Why choose the syllables that injures souls
When we could live the day with thoughts that ignite a life
Why choose the thoughts that deny one
When there is so much yet to be unearthed by our fragile brains
Why choose to believe our futile knowledge is enough
When love is free and hate is sold at a price of tears and bombs and blood and guts
why choose the one that costs our soul
When we hold a book passed down through ages that we profess to hold true to,
That speaks of nothing but to learn to love the person next to us
Why have we learnt none?
When we were all born of one Maker of one Hand one Heart
Why do we despise some Hearts,
Why do we feel like the Hands that made us were but one
And live like the Maker is ours alone.
Something about the airport always fascinates me. So many different personalities waiting to be cramped in a few foot squares of an airbus all heading towards dreams, away from dreams. Heavy hearts & sullen thoughts, joyous lives & hopeful souls sharing modified oxygen for a dozen-packed minutes. There is that guy in the Darth Vader t-shirt who likes his pizza cheesy and his memes Star Wars. Who swears on falling for any girl who’d be a Star War couple with him cue Big Bang Theory. Who is intent on making his opinions on the sci-fi plot in social media. There’s the girl with a MANGO satchel and a handy laptop bag all over her phone, scared to waste a second offline. Who’d be complaining to her friends about “these people” who are so hurried to get in line to board the plane. She tweets and stories her life, wishing she lived more off-screen. There’s that ‘almost thirty-feeling twenty’ dude in a polo t-shirt and summer shorts who is so sure his opinions are the best in Quora. And there’s the thirteen something girl fascinated about every experience she comes across – the view from the plane, the passenger in front of her she felt compulsed to question and gathered the courage to ask “Which country are you from?” To which she got the reply, Northeast India, left with a baffled expression wondering how’d that face pop up from her country. And there’s me being all observant and cynical and wordy, making the passengers next to me curious as to whether I am a writer or another heartbroken girl trying to document pieces of her life. A curious middle-aged aunty tries to catch some words off the paper but it doesn’t seem to make sense. An hours curiosity entertains nonetheless. Who is she, who am I?