"I can be the dark, just for you to love your brightness." Reyansh Rathore.
*.✧ ___________✧*。
Guilt and remorse can become your constant companions, clinging to your soul until you decide to release them. Yet, will your consc...
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Love is the imperfection, that's why I termed it as real.
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Streak
Streak
Streak
A week.
It's enough time. Since, I got kidnapped and I skipped my medicine. A medicine per week. Though, the medicine lessens down my anxiety and only to be taken if faced so. But, with this walking devil instead of one week, I need it per minute.
I lay down on the bed, face front, blankly staring at the high white ceiling.
Eyes burning up with the ache of regret and guilt.
"Hey, my birthday is coming. You better gift me a white dress, this time." I look towards the person.
"Urgh, you and your's obsession with white colour." I scowl my face, thinking what's so fascinating about white.
"White is pure, letting every colour mix in it. Unlike any other colours, it'll will secrets pureness."
"No. White is dull. It gets dingy easily!" I mutter in whisper.
"Here the topic is of birthday. Why're you both having a comparative study regarding white."
I squeeze my eye shut, a tear drop rolling out. My breath becoming abnormal with my heart beating like a drum in my ribcage. I fell suffocating in my own skin. I fist the bedsheet, changing my side to look towards the open window. It's been years but still it's vivid in my treasure of memories.
The memories sowing themselves in my conscience, paralysing my intellect.
The inky clouds in the sky looks too similar to the memories encircling over my head.
In literature we've this word call, Debris
Remaining of destroyed things after a storm.
Our memories are nothing but debris. Up date, whatever I am is nothing but debris. An element of past.
