I am writing without heart. It’s so audacious on my part - heart is an indispensable organ of writing. I am running out of words as well. May be it’s one of the consequences of leaving heart aside.This is strange but I am still feeling good. You know like being on a desert alone yet wandering as if its an orchard, a gold world.
I pursue a wait. The fireflies around guide the directions but the path is sickly dark. I am walking and walking forth. There’s no anticipation but it’s just the wait to reach the sidle and see what lies beyond the space. The indefiniteness of this address may fall apart. But I do not have any fear.
The cotton puffs in the blue above my head attract me. They can heal the blood wounds. The sacred white gust of clouds invites me towards a greater heaven than humanly dreams. There is no hope. Its not needed. They talk of no relations. I feel I have wings, beautiful wings and I nothing else I implore.
Yellow is my color. Yellow sun, yellow earth, yellow bodies, yellow souls. The virgins roam around this yellowness together, singing of its praise. I am going too.