The Strand-ed Hair Says

Of ragged ponytails, and messed up curls, of glossy length and gleaming silk, you shimmer like the halo of an angel. Undaunted and unrelenting, you stretch as far as you want to.

You fall too, in waves of rebellion with a misplaced sense of being. The coarseness of the mind which is your enemy sometimes shreds you as he laughs in glee. But who is the enemy, other than a friend turned wrong? So you grow, and you grow back every time a catastrophe cannibals at your soul.

Mixed with dust and soil, you whirl in the wind and dance to the fingers of your own rhythm. Made slave to the monotonic pattern of survival, you wet yourself with the likes of a thousand ambiguities. When you lay there lathered, screaming to be washed away from the river of dirt, the ocean of secrets concealed in the roots of you spring forward in luscious tides. You rinse the demons in you, and every time you vow you’ll be better, you’ll hold on to your world, you’ll not fall. As you comb your worries out, the pressing folds of the wonder you are pierces through the eyes of the wanderer, and you seem immortal, in that very moment.

You were not stepped upon, you were not uncared for, and you were not pieces cut aside to be flung in the miniature hazard of oblivion.

You are beauty reincarnated, you are shades of colours screaming to be loved, you are a delightfully chaotic jigsaw puzzle waiting to be played and figured right from the beginning, when you were born.



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