My beloved and I are escapists

Picture credit: @happyheidi on tumblr

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 I suffered often from Monday blues. Those blues ranged from shade to shade. 

It seems that being exceptional is a sin. A deadly sin.  

And so a sinner I was; labelled from hair to toe,  marked as someone who didn't have a mark. Every nook and corner of my life asked for the sky, and all I could give was binding ice. Never knowing the consequences often times pushed me into a cinch. I wanted a place to run and hide from the monsters. 

At midsummer midnights, I looked for the fairies.  The angels and the magic portals that take you to another reality. I looked at mirrors and gazed at stars. But I wonder if sleep is it. If I sleep for long enough will I find myself by a blue lake; no time confining me.  And labels could become just pieces of paper soggy with water and turning to a crispy shade of blue: the shade that colored my mind. 

I would like to see nihility and wonder what reality could feel like. 

Because if I am as exceptional as they label me, then I must be in a dream. A never-ending,  short lived,  long tenured dream: the one where shadows become imbeciles and humans become the very hell. 

I have stories to tell. Ranging from how the gream reapers met me by Christ's crucifixion, and the beloved that I met by the bridge  in the winter glory of cold snow blue. 

And with my beloved alone, my blue mixed with her red,  and together we became purple. Both of us wore the flower crowns and we ruled the lands unknown to human mind. 

We were escapists of death; escapists of fate that bound us. We held the thunder in our hands and in our words we held the flowers. To the beloved universe,  we gave our infinity.

Now say,  my beloved. If we escaped again just to live,  do we survive in glory or fake history? 

Forgotten, beloved.

(Picture credit:- aqua-regia009 on tumblr) 

 Have you ever thought of being forgotten?

 Long lost like a summer that you regret twenty years later; like a letter you hold so dear that you never sent it out. And it caused a rift inside you. 

 You were swept by the words of the desolate woods, and now you're stuck. Your ambiguity gave you a palette of colors to color your life with and as you lifted the brush, the woods whispered "You're safe" .

You felt safe in a cage, surrounded by dwindling stars and warm, brown taints. And a few bruises later, you realised, it isn't what you searched for. 

So, did you venture deep inside to find what you were looking for, or did you struggle to cut down the cage and finally set free. Did happiness catch you? Or did you get lost in the blue sky. Did you find what made you this way? 

 There might not be anyone who remembers the words as well as you do. The whispers and sweet nothings, they get in the way of forgetting. And it gets lonely, being the only one who remembers everything just as it was. 

The twisted barks of the trees couldn't bend what you believed in. And then your shadow left you, so you knew it was a dark world that didn't cherish what you could give. When your happiness plays a minor key, how are you supposed to enjoy it like as it comes? 

Monday blues, and your nomenclature; you sink them into your identity. Are you the same person who loves the melancholy, and are you the same person who is sane? 

 All they do is ask, but never understand. But haven't you been forgotten often times? How long do you wish to be forgotten for? 

 Even a fleeting light of a firefly takes you back to your childhood, where you could innocently be dangerous. Where you could be curious and be deadly. But you were a child. And how were you to know the ways of the world where all they do is take. 

 The river of gold flows within you. It's not drought. It's a gold rush. 

Hold onto your treasures and those desolate winters. The absolute feeling of despondency. Soon you will see your gold shining in the sun. The morning after you will know that you might be painted golden blue. 

Your blue is a part of you, so are your winters. And when the spring comes, don't be forgotten. Be laid in the white letters, that speak of you kindly, as if you were a sort of an archangel. 

 And do you know, my beloved, my treasure, my virtues, my liabilities and my assets all lie in my words, that you cherish; that you say keep you living. 

 My world is full of witty witches, yours with courageous knights. And maybe I will die before we meet; before our worlds collide; before we confirm that You and I belong to the very same earth, and that our fates are as brazenly described as tragic they occur. 

 So if you let go of what you think of me, maybe I will be forgotten.