By Keerthana Sujith
There are days where the stars refuse to sparkle against the dark velvet sky,
days where the wind pushes clouds upon the sun; blocking any semblance of light.
And there are days where my hand refuses to pick up a pen
and let my thoughts flow in brutally permanent ink.
I find an unmatched comfort in watching as my fingers form shabby,
un-uniform, but complete fragments of my soul.
I allow the ink to flow like the tears that so often stain my cheek;
I find myself bleeding ink into every desperate word I write.
My hands seem to be forever stained with my new blue-black blood.
It seeps into every inch of skin,
holding its place with such familiar stubbornness,
that I haven't the heart to wash it away.
Ink and I are old friends.
But I have yet to meet anyone as cruel.
It is nothing without a hand to guide it,
like how a mirror is nothing without someone peering into it,
Ink is raw power because it can be anything, everything and nothing all in one,
It can be an all-consuming black hole of exhausted thoughts,
existentialism, nihilism, death.
Or it can be the innocent note at the end of a birthday card.
Maybe that is why I fear it so.
Because if I will it to, it can show me who I am.
If I will it to, with sincere honesty, it can show me who I could be.
And maybe deep down I am not yet ready to meet her.
By Keerthana Sujith
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