Unknown, unresolved.

It ebbed, it flowed, it etched too loud,
The silence was raging without the sound.
Air of the feared was alien enough,
Unknown it was, unresolved it died.

It was a blur with scars so sly,
The veil was drawn with a tenacious sigh.
Surreptitious it was with a ferocious cuff,
Unknown it was, unresolved it died.

It swindled the eyes with sinuous grace,
The treachery was deft without a trace.
To unsnarl the thread, it tried.
Unknown it stayed, unresolved it died.

Looking Glass

I've been sitting with a blank page in front of me since the last two days. The urge to write is so overwhelming that shutting the tab without writing instils a feeling of almost guilt in me. If I look back to how I started writing, it's in a way embarrassing. The title of my blog is the biggest NEON sign telling the tale of my immaturity dating almost 4 to 5 years back. I mean, 'SoNaLi's SpAcE'! Really? What was I thinking? Changing the case of letter alternatively made me feel cool. Though the immaturity hasn't left the building entirely, but concepts such as 'coolness' have been rendered as subjective and the cloud inhibiting my vision has been drifted away to some extent. But there are still gaps. Small little holes here and there. It's still blurry. What blurs it is the speciousness of people around and their twisted grasp of these concepts. Some consider their socially implied hierarchal snobbery as cool, while some describe the same as monstrosity. Just like some find the weird way of writing as cool while others consider it a 'wannabe' thing. I guess it all depends on the perception you pick for your looking glass. Choose the right one and it's a beautiful place with green grass and hot coffee. While you choose the wrong perspective and find yourself surrounded with an obnoxious world and misinterpreted people. There are so many coherent thoughts arising. But writing them down here would make it all sound flimsy and disoriented. But then I was never the one with straight logic and sense. Things never made so much sense to me as they are supposed to. It still is a hindrance to my learning abilities as I fail to understand the logic things operate on and the direction my brain is supposed to ride its chariots towards. Even as I let my fingers make an attempt to type my thoughts, they just can't coordinate with my brain and the words that end upon the screen are filtered to an extent that the original sense gets lost somewhere in the way.

It took me three attempts and twice the complete wipe off of the screen to come up with the few lines that I think would make some sense from the selection of all the other nonsensical stream of consciousness. Trust me, all those poetic lines I wanted to write sounded so much better in my head when I was walking back with the cup of coffee in my hand. It's nowhere to be found in my brain now that I actually got down to write them.