Curiosities and Candid Musings

Dear whose dearly starts with A, D, J, R, or the rest in the alphabets,  I sat at your funeral by myself with my own self. It was in a dim room with grey four walls, the kind of metaphor poets use for representation. I am trying to be cliché here, so this room is a representation of us. Just that I am the only occupant now. I opened your coffin again. I open your coffin every time the eerie sounds in the room bring back flashbacks of our juvenile days. But from my honest experiences, it is never special. I am only welcomed with the foul smell of your rotting memory and you are gradually fading away more as you turn into dust. I intentionally keep the windows open hoping that the winds will carry your thoughts away.    So today, I told myself “For the last time”, this shall be the last time I will open your casket. I am thinking that had I chosen dramatics I might have been famous by now or if people only spoke in figures of speech, I might even be a member of the Language...

Have man succeeded in putting words to vividly express the feelings inside? Has the world’s most melancholic poet who made her readers cry, feel that much depth of pain or more. yet still, words failed. Have words failed us? Pain being subjective to the beholder; And like the varying shades of indigo at the mill, our own sorrows rests. Not bright, but all deep-dark and in varians of aches. Are we but ruthless to seek words for our miseries; Words to channel sorrows and make another  feel what already is killing us inside? Of our hundred highs and lows in one minute, to be multiplied to a thousand lows and a thousand highs on one and another more. Are we but painting gloom in this world? Or has word and language failed us all, that we seek a way in others who makes an attempt? Has Pain its language? Or does it take form in acts alone: of rage, or loss, silence and all the moods to question morality. But what if Action was not what we sought, but instead adjectives and sentences. Can...