thewritingark

Latest Posts by thewritingark

This.

To be Admired

A source of light  Untouched, sacred and pure  I burn myself every moment To mark the beginning and the end of every day Everyone saw the world around, I made sure.

But a thought lingered somewhere, A desire. To be loved like the moon, to be admired Maybe I am unworthy of it I lack it's allure Never the sight to behold People look away, scorching under my gaze I hate myself then All I wanted was someone who would look my way.

To shine like the sun, first burn like it I am an inspiration but not a sight of admiration That I longed for Like the umbrella after the rain Bandage after the wound heals They are never acknowledged, Because, They aren't wants but needs 

I am untouched, sacred and pure Not a mere source of light I smile at the realisation  I am the source of life after all.

The Right Abode

At the station of doubts, I looked for the wheels of the answer's train. Colliding with people alike, Our luggage carried the same weight. Watching many moving ahead, Towards their right abode, I tried to cater more time, hiding my defeated face.

I peeked inside each of the trains, Trying ensure that I wouldn’t drown, rather, someday sail. Lost in the lost crowd, I searched for an abode that my destiny had framed.

Finally, finding one down a new track, I tried to board it with all my luggage. The bags tossed away by the crowd, I found them etched with my fears’ name.

It was then I realised, I had ruined my life, Thinking they belonged to my unhealed pain.

~ark

To be Known, To be Lost

I broke free Too tired to survive in monotony Too tired of being recognised, known to anybody.  The urge to just disappear lingered,  To become a part of something new,  To feel new, to dissolve, to be lost completely. 

But in the process of, Filtering myself to feel unique, Escaping to gain my own autonomy, The desire to belong, My willingness to surrender, Made me realise that I was nothing more than a selfish body. Transient beings, their desires - ugly.  To be bound, to be known, to be contradictory.  I confined myself to have nothing, But a fleeting identity.    

Forgotten Death

Wandering in the endless desert, I searched for a stable land. But who knew I searched for more time, Just a little, to live and die once again. Enclosed behind the bars of glass, My attempt to avoid the pathway towards the end. I let those pages free, but the memories, Tried to recollect the pages falling into shreds. Living like I have centuries tomorrow, I held the needle, with a little thread, Who knew, my eternal life ran, In the hourglass of my forgotten death.

~ark

Sculpted

I sculpted it With the desire To reshape something I could never fix To create something I could never become To make it distinct from me To let it live my every dream

But it wasn't the only one coming to life With it I was reliving I was being crafted in the process of crafting I was creating it to recreate me To give it life to live mine To feel complete

Displaying it one day, The audience seemed to be smitten with its beauty But it refused to believe them It refused to believe me It refused to love itself It refused to be Caressing it, I reduced it into pieces Only to realise, The molds I had used were once used on me, I had created nothing but me.

~ark

Undefined

The noise of the world penetrated within, Settling deep inside,  Trying to stir the dead silence that hung,  Hiding beneath the mask of peace.

I never knew why but a sense of void grew, A hollow too stubborn to consume me and not contain me.

I remained indifferent, a way to run away, Forgetting, remembering, cherishing, regretting, Thoughts like water, flowing through my fingers, trying to cage them.

In this whirlwind of life, The feeling of being lost lingered, The fear of messing up,  The embarrassment of being monotonous,  Being too weak to overcome, being too stubborn to move on.

Forcing myself to understand everything, To make sense, to become understandable. Not being too loud, not too silent, Nothing extreme, to avoid attention.

I kept searching for definitions, A way to find meaning of something in my life, A way to define myself, But maybe,  I was fluid, changing itself with changing places.

Too difficult to be bound by boundaries, Yet too soluble, To completely dissolve in me to feel me To be with me was to be contaminated by me An existence, to be ignored for being a necessity; valued in scarcity, A shape, full, but never whole. A story remembered but never told.

~ark

Guilt

The urge to remain where we are, not wanting to move, not wanting to change and then feeling guilty for not achieving, for not changing, for not beginning, for not ending, for not continuing.

Standing in front of the mirror yet avoiding it to not witness the failure achieved, to avoid the reflection of the coward who refused to give the best, who chose to ignore everything.

The guilt of not putting efforts and then reading the disappointed expressions hidden beneath the acts of consolation. To show that you worked when you never did and when they say, “At least you gave your best. That’s what matters” 

How do you break it to them? How do you present your cowardness, your lethargy, your unfaithfulness. And then, you opt for a path you never thought you would take. You become something with a void building within. All the emotions that were never expressed eventually stop hurting, they become a habit. The void gradually growing consumes all the emotions leaving a creature too selfish to even care. Showing acceptance for something you should’ve fought harder for but you leave it, you leave yourself where you were.

But in all of this, one thing remains,

The guilt of not feeling guilty. The constant war to define it, to categorise it as justification or an excuse. But these words seem inappropriate, what do you think would fit?

Cowardice, distracted, remiss or the inertia of not moving ahead from the information to know the difference to the wisdom of making one?

Chaos.

My mind and heart are always in chaos. Their conflicts are my contemplations, their silence my dilemma. 

Their contradicting desires to fulfil a single temptation, their yearning to solve something unsolvable. And that’s what keeps me going. Thinking, understanding, then losing it and then reassuring. 

For the cycle to go on, they must stand at opposite ends so the boat doesn’t sink.

They must act parallel to walk together until my last breath.

But then, how will peace be achievable? For how long must this war go on? One must find content, one must feel fulfilled. 

We choose how we live. Life is a series of them, like every mountain followed by a valley. Pain followed by bliss, riot followed by peace. Read it backwards and the perspective differs. 

And at every turn, isn’t every choice, a war of wants?

Peace isn’t constant, a result of constant choices rather. Choice to stay silent and then speak, choice to find peace in war or war in peace.

Thereby, I choose to find solace in conflict. 

Between heart and mind

They must be against each other so that I can stand against the world.

Belonging

I let people go while I hold onto things. People drift apart, flowing rivers and I remain a shore, holding onto their fragments. The letters they wrote, the illustrations, the conversations, I preserve them, becoming soil, fertile and fruitful.

I hold onto memories, capturing the person I know would change eventually. Who finds the same person twice even in the same person anyway?

So, thereby, my efforts are never focused on caging the flowing river rather, take a part of it and make it a part of mine. 

Be it good or bad, I absorb everything to nurture my being, to experience bliss and pain, to experience fertility, to experience solitude when called barren.

The rivers become a medium of change sometimes, I flow through them, my silt deposited where it didn’t belong but still absorbs in it, becoming a part of something different yet I remain different. 

I wonder whether my identity of being silt was just an imagination. Being a human, I must be a river, ever flowing, irrigating fields of livelihood, ever changing, giving and taking yet never keeping.

But that’s where the difference came. I too give and take but after making it mine. 

I possess; hence, I belong. I belong; hence, I remain trapped.

People are finding the love of their life online, and I can't even find the right answer to my assignment questions.

There were two reasons I was scared to let people in; the damage they could do, and the damage they could find.

Chris Mc Geown

.

I think I finally understand The rose's thorns I too want to be loved Without being touched

So I am no romantic flower I embody the stem I want to be ideal And practically unattainable

Some scars needn't be visible, they ache in memory.

"I don't even feel anything anymore, I'm just immersed in the stillness of my own thoughts."

— Echoes of the Infinite, Restless Prayer

The Coin of Heroes and Villains

Villains and heroes are a jest,

Both are like either sides of a coin,

One will always be below and the other on top,

And neither will stand on their sides,

It depends on us who the villains are,

Or wether they be the head or tail,

The world really does not care that much,

But we will always be the villain on neither side.

Mr. Waltz

Choice

I waited when I wasn't spoken to

I waited for my turn

I was just an option after all waiting to be chosen

To be the answer the correct one

Wasn't it important to change for the question?

Patience is the key they say

But why was I expecting to be the one?

Life is a reflection of our choices

When did I choose to become an option?

~ark

Materialism is a lie. It is a delusional lie and it should not be leading the culture. Not when we are spiritual beings.

Gigi Young

How to convince myself

To try again

When trying

Only brings regret

Longing for words

To be enough

But words are lost within

Vacant smiles

Insincerity

Hiding behind corners

My faults shining

Showing others

I’m empty

The Favourite?

The song I loved the most yesterday

On repeat, at the top of my playlist

Has now drifted away

It isn't that special

The memories it has, isn't my life now

The tears dried, that once fell due to its symphony

The ability it once had to put rhythm in every thought of mine,

Now, there is nothing to convey

From reality to memories

From the favourite one to one of them

It was a short journey,

I don't even remember how and when.

~ark

December 2024?

Wasn't it 2019 yesterday?

"People empty me. I have to get away to refill."

– Charles Bukowski

I wanted life to fill me,

to make something of the hollowness I carried.

But life was demanding—

it asked me to fill it instead,

to give my all,

to talk more than listen,

to be seen rather than simply see,

to laugh more than savor the moment.

I drained every bit of myself,

trying to stand at the forefront

of my life and that of others.

Until every bit of life was drawn out of me.

I was meant to be a simple soul,

finding joy in whatever came my way.

I don't know why the world

was so desperate to make me the engine,

when all I ever wanted

was to be a floating boat.

From hollowness to hollowness, I returned,

but now with a deeper yearning—

a longing to exist

without judgment,

without scrutiny,

without every step carrying consequence.

Now, I want to do things for their own sake,

to walk for the journey,

to breathe just for the next moment.

To let myself be filled of life,

Of the moments that don't carry meaning,

Just peace.

Areeba

I am not the best,

I am not better

I am not good

But I am something.

Will that be enough?

I am but drained, even without doing much, downright exhausted, struggling to find reasons, motivation or such, to survive.

- DG

With a glint in her eyes, hungry to be heard and loved, looked around herself, she was all alone, all by herself.

She had no major problems in her life nor did she want all eyes on her. It was a search for a pair of eyes, deep as an ocean, for she could drown in them and vanish.

With stories unwritten, she remained responsible, priorities remained unhinged. But it was there in her mind somewhere, to weave a beautiful story once, from her memories and not from her imagination.

Either praise or curse,

I just wished for some words.

From your throat to my ears,

Something to know that you see my efforts.

My own work disgusts me, at times. I find it flat, I find the words that had depth now are as shallow as a children's pool. I look to the right, and then to the left: so many other of us here and there, their poems with hard-to-read fonts, and crazy weird background colors. Big ones, 10k+ ones, think they are fools. But I see the magic, I see the struggle, the courage, the craziness, the sadness, the reflection in the mirror—blurred. The writing is good, but my eyes are dull—addicted to the aesthetic, to the trend, to the dopamine cycle, to the movement—how do I break this cycle? I'm being swallowed by it! I want to me the same, and to fight the norm. I want to inform, to conform, to deform, and then to destroy everything. I want to be real, to open a way, to see and be seen, and to become, and delight in the fact that I am another human being.

We used to be strangers,

Nothing was known, no memories.

I hope we had remained the same,

Because now nothing is left.

No bliss, no pain.

Preparing felt a burden then, Because the performance never improved.