Life isn't Black and White

My cursor blinks, looking right at me with anticipation, like a child filled with curiosity as eager and impatient.  What will you write next? A poem, a thought? How far will you take me? A paragraph, a page? It, however, manages to wait, loyal for as long as forever. It stands there at the end of every letter I type, pleading for me to type more, to push it farther along the line, like a slave high on abuse. It marks the beginning of every story untold, and marks the sour end to them too. It's a tongue, liberating speech and thought. It's a heart, beating efficiently. It's a lover, coming back after every departure. It's a guide, cutting a road through blankness. It's a voyager, leaving a trail behind. It's a leader, right at the frontier, ready to push the army of words behind it an extra mile for the win.  I cannot but respond to it's blinking, looking at me with puppy eyes. I cannot but feel a necessity to compose for it's loyalty. I cannot but

  Sleep had eloped with all of my dreams, and I have become a dreamless insomniac. Often I'd find myself alone with the night. We'd remain quiet for hours. At times, I get bold enough to confront it in silence, while at others, I'm way too discouraged, and I hide amidst piles of work in more silence. It's beautiful, my relationship with the night, and it's simple, unlike everything else going on in my life.    With tunes of a beautiful cello and piano to my ears, I close my eyes in the arms of the night, and we dance. It takes me away, hiding me far from the chaos of the morning bustle, from my fears, and my responsibilities. I love it, and how it grants me much attention. There's only me amidst the night, only I am wrapped tightly in its black cloak, only I am held so closely with tender love and affection like no other, yet again in overwhelming silence.   I paint all sorts of colors and hope into a future that remains unknown yet seems exhausting, a

I thought that I was never going to stand tall again. I thought that I was forever broken, nothing more than damaged goods, lying around still and lifeless amongst the rest of the pieces of shattered glass scattered about in this deserted warehouse we call life. Every time I used to hold her hands and ask her wondering if things will ever get back to how they were, I'd doubt her when she'd look at me, smile beautifully, and tell me with all the confidence in the world that it'll pass the way everything else we have been through had passed. I love her so much, I'd then think to myself and smile back silently, holding in my pain, fear, and doubt away from what her eyes could see, protecting her from feeling helpless and in chains. I was sweating, lightheaded, and breathing with difficulty. I was terrified. Death felt close, hovering around, leaving me to my torture while watching in exhilaration before deciding to take my soul. The sound of my heart was loud enough