HIGHWAY

Driving through the pine lined highways, I turn around to look at you.

I wanted to paint you in a different shade of blue than you wanted to be painted it.

I wanted to tell that to you, but telling you would take away my own sense of blue.

I was never a person of paints, but now I am and I would do anything to withhold my blue within me.

Driving through the empty and astonishingly broad highways, I randomly just started crying. It wasn't a sob or a weep. I doubt that there even is a certain word for my tears.

And how could there even be?

Is it possible to name something whose cause of the origin you are unsure of?

Is it grief? Is it love?

Then another question hit me. Is it ecstasy?

All this while when I thought that I was losing my blue, but maybe I wasn't. I was becoming a better shade of blue, and I didn't get that then, but I do now.

Was it that I was somehow so scared of breathing that I was forcing myself to breathe in ways that are considered unconventional?

My life is a serious series of paradoxes. Or I thought it has been. Now it seems to be a pretty mundane issue.

I have often noticed humans gather twigs for burning their souls. I guess that's the problem. Twigs don't burn souls. Barks do.

Driving down the highway, my eyes suddenly glanced at an oak tree.

A tree so white and peaceful that it's doubtful of its own reality.

I don't blame it for wondering if it will still be as white after the end of its time.

My words were sacred. Burning through my soul.

But oh, your words were so unholy.

But again, unholiness clenches my guy a million different times. Unholiness, perhaps disguised by a mask of holiness.

I wasn't a person of religions, but now I would give anything to maintain my sacredness. Or yours, really.

I was escaping through the fumes for so long that I was forgetting how to live without the smokes.

Now though, as I'm learning to live without the taint of your impurity, I keep getting glimpses of allure to you.

I know that I am never going to reach you even if I want to travel. You are long gone.

And I don't want to feel the desire. I'm not feeling the desire truly. It's just my inner sense of falling for you. At the end of it all though, I know that I am not falling for it, but rather I'm just picking myself up.

My eyebrows of glass got tinted through your droplets of tear.

Each tear a new pain and each moment a new suffering.

I loved you through my glass tainted windows.

And you decided that you want a house without windows.

What was I supposed to do? Close off my fucking doors?

You are driving me off from the elixir of your source. Forbidding me from following you through your forbidden doors.

You have perjured my sense of being.

A holy ephemeral existence.

My love for you is an ocean of sufferings and pains. Does it excite me? Does it ravage the hell out of me?

How though, do I know the meanings of phrases I have never heard.

What is it about this mundane existence that is making me extreme to your love?

I feel a weird sense of satisfaction inside of my heart.

Why though, is it that my tears feel to me more happiness to me than loss?

I'm gaining way more than you in the process of losing you.

I'm establishing a sense of beauty through calling you ugly.

I don’t see any reason to alter my existence to satisfy your sense of beauty. Or what my internal organs consider as beauty.

I am an unholy river of your words. Words that I thought wouldn’t reach my ears. Yet, here we are. and show the love.

Why then am I plucking off my own feathers?

If I was supposed to align through your sense of demeanor, why is it that I feel deficit in myself.

Driving back to your elixir of breathing through these highways, I started to contemplate if I am taking it in just alright.

Your sense of demeanor was my only source of regret. And I didn’t know what to extubate from it.

How does it matter, though, if I suddenly stop driving?

Afterall, it is not my most favorite activity.

I was begging for an ounce of mercy at the feet of your embodiment.

And so, I cried out.

Crying out too hard may lead me to dry out of my own flow, seizing out myself in the process.

And, oh, your love was so consumingly inviting at the moment.

But little do I know, I consume myself greater than you can ever do.

I wasn’t perhaps even driving back to you. I perhaps was driving back to myself.

I loved you through my glass tainted windows, so as to say again. But alas! you decided that you wanted to break my windows with your heavily filled yet hollowed out stones.

I remember the time we were playing scrabble.

You let me win.

I decided to let you let me win.

But again, my windows weren’t the best representation of stability back then.

And I can very well accept it now that I wanted my glass to be shattered.

It is said that if you break your glasses enough times, you start to transform into rubber.

METAMORPHOSIS- defined as a change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one.

But who is it really, that’s doing the saying?

Is it that nobody is saying anything, and it is just me imagining circumstances?

But again, I am also somebody, so as to say.

Why was I beginning to contemplate my contemplations so hard that i was starting to doubt the contemplations themselves?

I even fear losing my contemplations.

But who am I kidding?

It is inherently out of reach for me to lose something that is welded this deep to me.

But saying that doesn’t mean that I am trying to undermine the worth of my will. It is holy. It is sacred. It is invincible.

Does a branch really fall off, if there is nobody to witness its fall? The age-old answer would be that maybe it fell and didn't fall at the same time.

Driving through the pine lined highways, I felt a fire within me.

But I also feel the water that could extinguish it.

Perhaps I am both the fire and the water that can extinguish it.

Where is the choice to burn or to not?

Is the fire forced to burn or is it an honor to it? Is the water more than happy to extinguish the fire or does it regret doing so?

Am I stubbornly wrong to assume that you wanted to extinguish me?

You claimed to be oxygenating me.

You claimed to be a fuel.

And maybe you were. You did fuel me. But not in the same way you exclaimed to have intended.

You crumbling bones come off as fictitious to me.

Why am I, though, doubting my own ability to create stories?

I am conflicted by the uncertainty of time caused by this spacecraft.

It doesn’t attempt to entitle you to itself. Then why is it that you want to be entitled to it? Why is it that I do?

Entitlement is a weird kind of state to be.

It demands to be felt or acknowledged upon, really. Not as intensely as numbness does, though.

I guess then perhaps it is a limit to how far you can travel without having your speed or endurance and/or both.

I am a high believer of both.

But what is a belief, really, if not an *illusion*?

I often find myself conflicting between my own conundrums.

My sheer sense of lies to me- or you- often try to peel out through my skin out of my bones.

You said it brought you closer to your incandescence. But what though, about my luminosity that was becoming so redundant in the process?

Oh, my years of toils speak so loudly!

But why is it that I can't seem to shake off your bits from inside me?

Your ability to be nonchalant in a world of fucks astonishes my sense of being.

Why then, do I still feel shocked by it, though?

If driving through an enhanced sense of beauty were a quest, I would perhaps win.

Yet I am forced to believe in the matter that unpleasantries are what I win the best.

It is said that this is not a game of pitch and toss. Why then, do you compel me to believe otherwise? Or perhaps it even is, and I am the one compelling myself to believe otherwise.

Driving through these pine lined highways, I start to remember again that there is supposed to be an end to this all.

But I am just in a continual process of navigating through these roads.

Perhaps it is supposed to be this way- a never-ending series of interconnected highways that lead nowhere in particular.

Or is it that I am the one who doesn’t want it to stop.

Is it that I am the one who is making these roads never-ending?

They say that I was constantly ruled by a fear of reaching a state.

Does writing about you reduce your holiness? or just expands it manifold?

Writing about you perhaps just breaks you like a glass. And it gives intrinsic pleasure to see you shatter. All your pieces spread out as clear as water.

I have no wish of escaping you through meaningless echoes. Yet I am bound by these voids to advertently do so.

Oh, and you said what!?