Impressions

Bimala Watercolour on paper

Don’t get me wrong. I never was a luminary, I never held the promise of transporting you Into the realm of imagination Or reflective introspection With my humble words. I could at most be an asteroid In a sky lit up by stars Basking in the reflected glory of the celestial sphere. But even during those moments of painful awareness Of my mediocrity My heart remained true. I wrote, therefore, not to impress you Nor to transport you Into the realm of imagination Or reflective introspection. I wrote to exorcise myself Give shape to the nebulous demons Raising up a storm inside. And with every bud of truth That sprouted from my pen I reclaimed parts That had been swallowed by the infinite darkness of the black holes The spectres of the stars that light up the celestial sky.

I buried my feelings deep within the recesses of my mind, Hoping that by not acknowledging them They would somehow cease to exist. But my wounds, raw and blistering, festered. They feigned docility at times, And obediently throttled my attempts at dissent. But when angry, they would poke through the delicate film That held together the shards of my mind, Letting my feelings gush out, Not as poetic words, weaving the pain and sorrow Into incandescent streams of thought That would reflect some of the pain that others surely felt. Not as jagged barbs that would surely drive home The validity of my grievances. But as mute, glistening tears. And others would see only my weakness, my frailty. They would not see the scars that formed a fortress around me, Allowing the occasional river to flow While keeping the floodgates tightly shut Clasping the ocean firmly within its breast.