By Swarnali Patra.
I’m a casualty of a war that I fight every night with my demons. To everyone else I am a collateral damage of being a maverick. I feel as if I am walking on muscovite with this redundant heartache. I want cataclysm to consume me and I shall be a true wanderess from there on. My gypsy soul could be free from the manacle of my vestigial physical being.
My spirit belongs to no celestial city, I languish for no place I am indigenous to. I crave surrealism, tranquillity in my veins and chaos in my bones, for I already am a hurricane taken too long for a shower and the convolutions of my mind are the reason cyclones are named after people.
I wonder if I even have a name that will be carved on the walls of oak trees by an unfamiliar, forlorn lover. My skin is scarred but those scars are not for decoration; those are the souvenirs I collected from my own battle field. I am frayed at every edge with a wilted spine and yet I choose darkness because the evergreen gleam in my eyes is the procreation of stardust and darkness.
I let myself be consumed by my own darkness, the impulse of my own soul, the indignation of the voices in my own head. The more I let the void take me in, the better I see the particles I am made of.
I am not a broken arrow but the kinetic energy of a shooting one. My own resplendence illuminates the void and the same burns so bright that it wears me down.
The void is my solace, the epiphany which is my omega and my kryptonite; where assentation is non-existent, where no obligation to make peace with gravity persists, where no manacles can hold me back. I call that void a leap.