It was late Saturday night and a conversation with an old friend, lead me to believe how little credence we give to the sum of ourselves as a whole rather than the parts that we are. And yet I feel we are fascinated with just that much, we are drawn to people for bits and pieces of them. I have been inclined to think we are fiction of our own figments, we are unreal because we make and break ourselves many times in our imagination. And it is the fictitious persona (the figment) that designs the fiction we get to write about and live in from time to time. Hence I write to fiction of figments that master their way in our lives, we are more than story tellers
Fiction of Figments
And there were just the story tellers, we were only two,
When the day seems shorter than the stories I told you.
We were cooped up in anxious selves , when the week would come to an end,
We would silently reminisce the passing week as though losing a welcome friend
The Sunday blues would come and go,
And in the mellow evening it leaves your mind at places you don't know.
Coming home was just the excuse of the day we kept,
In letting some things stay the same, just the way we had left
We are fiction of our own figments, we are written by no one still,
We are pallets of our own colors, we are just waiting to paint, for spaces to fill
We are words that don't need to be written down, we have imagined real world many a times,
And yet today all I can think of is a restless heart, and the solace it wants to find
For those who been brave at times, we applaud the moments notice as you handle you blues,
We are cared for by the stories we write, ourselves at our best as we make the choices we choose
We are fictions of figments we are created for a while to indulge whatever it may,
We are wishing to be written down somewhere, and finding a place to be unchanged, as we stay.
Sunshine outside my window sill, creeps slowly into the room I live,
In between the shutters that closes you out sometimes, I hope you always find a way to sneak in.
Fiction of Figments
And there were just the story tellers, we were only two,
When the day seems shorter than the stories I told you.
We were cooped up in anxious selves , when the week would come to an end,
We would silently reminisce the passing week as though losing a welcome friend
The Sunday blues would come and go,
And in the mellow evening it leaves your mind at places you don't know.
Coming home was just the excuse of the day we kept,
In letting some things stay the same, just the way we had left
We are fiction of our own figments, we are written by no one still,
We are pallets of our own colors, we are just waiting to paint, for spaces to fill
We are words that don't need to be written down, we have imagined real world many a times,
And yet today all I can think of is a restless heart, and the solace it wants to find
For those who been brave at times, we applaud the moments notice as you handle you blues,
We are cared for by the stories we write, ourselves at our best as we make the choices we choose
We are fictions of figments we are created for a while to indulge whatever it may,
We are wishing to be written down somewhere, and finding a place to be unchanged, as we stay.
Sunshine outside my window sill, creeps slowly into the room I live,
In between the shutters that closes you out sometimes, I hope you always find a way to sneak in.
No comments:
Post a Comment