“She was yet to be written”; She said, She wrote the same, well I would agree too, for She was just too stupendous to be contained in words. She wasn’t ordinary, She was just another being with an unfathomable soul, too deep to be understood and too vast to be held.
She couldn’t just be written about, She couldn’t just be thought of as well, for my thoughts would tire under the sheer load it would feel everytime I would try to evoke her in them.
She was white and black and shades of grey, myriads of colour infused in her; She was dull and sad and happy and glad: often all of it at the same time.
“She was yet to be written”; She said, very well said indeed, for no one could could do justice to her being and presence and now the absence. She was soft and She was loud, She was pretty and She was proud; all her weaknesses suppressed deep within, lay within her the vulnerability filled to it’s brim; yet She was ordinarily extraordinary, She would gallop and scamper yet put to rest all the chaos that flew around.
“She was yet to be written”; She said; She said it very well indeed, I am at my wit’s end to trace her: to find her origin and decode her end, She like herself is bounded by innumerable possibilities, akin to her they are varied too.
She’s the light and She the gloom, She the summer shade and the winter noon; the start of my thought and the very end of it, in her I find my own trace: She’s up over there amidst the dark clouds.
“She was yet to be written”; She said; very well said.
abhishek purkayastha 