I'll find my way back home
I'll find my way back home3 mins 216 3 mins 216
- "Little wings smell like old home"
Mornings were never beautiful before the late November brought Sparrow's nest to my window pane. Occasional winter storms shook away it's wings to fly to her old home. One dark morning when my ashtray was full to the brim, I dusted the smoke over the window pane losing my homy in the mist. Years after the same ashtray is buried under the grave of withered wings and the wind carried away the message along with it.
The redwood framed glazing glass near my bed adores some old friends, once lost in mirk.
Every evening when my back rest over the couch sipping the hot coffee, my mother pats my head. I should feel loved, right? But the hollow bones inside my rotting flesh irks me for something I actually don't know. My subconscious mind has been continuously gambling with forlorn memories reflecting the beauty and love being showered on me. I see my siblings enjoying a horse ride over dad's back when my fingers were twitching against the wall, scratching the newly painted nails inside the locked door. I should feel overwhelmed since I get a perfect clock to tick for me but unfortunately I feel empty.
The classic alarm clock is rubbing the pendulum vigorously, haunting me at the awful hour of three. In the dim lamp light I peeped through the curtains and the soothing imagery lended a peace to my breathes.
I'm not Cinderella so that the little bird would chirp me a sweet song. Neither it would sew a princess gown for me nor they would tangle my braids to hide the ugly look I have.
Perhaps I should whine about my libellous fate.
Laughing at my own silly thoughts had proved being a great tonic to my anxiety.
We humans are a puppet of self-infliction, cutting our own veins to turn suicidal. We try holding the (r/d)ope of moments in a tug war with our present smile waiting to dance over the lips. Some moments are just to pass by and not to turn into memories. They should be left alike the flow of sand slipping out of the fist. Sometimes it's better to keep roses isolated from the bouquet, to free up the skin from getting wounded by thorns.
The little sparrow whispered in my dream, "my wings were tired of flying and my feet are ragged out by an unknown land. My eyes are eagerly waiting to be hailed.
To get welcomed at the home which was my own."
"Wake up, chasmis, it's five", the alarm rang with my mother's voice. She's not here since I always wanted to be left alone.
I took out the case, mom gifted on my eighteenth birthday. Not so unique, it was just an ordinary wooden box with a hand written note.
" You'll never know when and how you changed.
You'll never know when and how your footprints started fading.
Life won't be like your favorite cupcake being served fresh. Sometimes stale bread will be able to pacify your hunger. Every moment is yours, smiling or shedding tears is a part of your journey and is your choice.
This box is for you to inbox your fears, grudges, sadness and lonliness, to free up your wings to fly smoothly.
You're always welcomed to your home lately "
At this point it is filled with beautiful butterflies, pinned breathless. I deliberately refused smelling the message mum tried to portray and ended up prisoning beauty in it.
But the time has come for the beauty to be freed and breathe tulips.
What else was left for me to delay a new start, with my ugly look, not as a bad remark. I might not be able to ride over my dad's back but atleast I would be beside laughing and enjoying the simple moments.
(P.S : A point will come where you'll start feeling tired and alone. Cut your eye teeth to know that life is giving you another chance to return home and lay betwixt the sunflowers. )