Reborn

reborn___contemporary_nude_oil_painting_by_k_madis_nudes__figurative__5ff1b4d319b06bef48b92bfae4002af5

What was real blindness like? I wondered while lying down on the floor staring at the roof of the room whose only furniture was darkness. Is it in the inability to see the light? Or is it in the inability to see the facades they wear?

On further introspection, I realized that I never fathom out that behind a facade there is no light, so how can they ever think good for me? I wanted to know who I am, I wanted to see if my skin was still breathing or the darkness had occluded all the pores.

I ran my fingers along my face, and when my fingers reached the end of the forehead, it felt as a shore to the sea of black hair that had captured the whirlwind of realism, ready to sweep away the pseudo.

The window of the room howled in the darkness, and the glass cracked with the force of the wind that blew outside. I stood up with a slightly loosen hair bun and eagerness in my eyes to look outside the window.

The moonlight entered through the crack, and gave birth to my shadow, the part of me that got lost amidst the darkness.

The wind permeated the room, wiping out their villainous smell, and flew through my loosen bun, unfolding each strand full of power with its tenderness.

The moonlight seeped through my veins, bestirring the blood to flow smoothly with a hope.

The veil of blindness was peeled off by the songs of the wind, the dance of the moonlight, poetry of the stars and silence of the soul. The pores breathed again, and I was reborn.

– Kritika Vashist

(Painting my Madison Moore)

Nothing of Me

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There is nothing of my own,
none of my poems,
or an unsung song.

There is nothing more whole,
nothing more infinite
than my ever devoted soul.

Musing floating in the space,
scattered words trying to trace,
in the little universe inside me,
the one that believes,
despite what crafted world says,
nothing, but love reveals;
whatever I am,
whatever I was.

There is nothing this nature hasn’t shown;
There is nothing of me I haven’t known.

From the winds,
speaking for my feisty sail,
an unheard, unknown tale.

From the moonlight,
veiling my unfrequented face,
leaving an imperceptible trace.

From the infinity of sky,
embracing my love’s agelessness,
raining my love’s melancholiness.

Nothing but,
the poems I write,
nothing of which is mine;
a rumination of that mystical love,
residing in me.

Day after day,
I realize,
nothing of me is possible to think,
nothing of me is possible to ink.

In gaze and stillness,
I realize,
nothing of me was ever adulterated,
it was nothing,
but a liberation unstated.

There is nothing of me I haven’t known.
The poems I write
The songs I sing
In the wind that blows
When the night falls.
Everything,
from the tiny universe within.

However,
This world knows nothing of me;
The warmth of my love,
the bitterness of my love.

This world knows nothing of me;
Of what I am,
of what I could be.

– Kritika Vashist

(Lately, I have been feeling as if few abstruse thoughts and philosophies of life, which, I think and write are not what I decided to, but a force within takes my hands and places them on the keyboard and makes them to draw the words I wanted to keep to myself somewhere beneath the soul, where nothing of me and no one can reach.)