And again I found myself turning the same pages and repeating the same lines. Its a subconscious clock maybe, that makes me fall to that same trail of messages that I failed to send. To the trail of words that are still stuck at the tongue, unable to find voice. And every word that I failed to utter now pains me like needles, that start from the skin and reach far underneath.
Every man has a story that he lives by. A story that he lives for. Something that eases out a man in turmoil. And that story hardly ever pans out. What only pans out is music. You are musicians, humans. You are not here to write stories. You are here to write music. And music is not written by hands or guitar picks. Its written by the soul, its howls and laughter and cries. And you know no bounds of a soul's fantasy.
Maybe this was where I failed. I was trying to utter words, write sentences. Maybe I should ask her to listen to the songs of the heart, not the flexes of hands. Maybe.
Every man has a story that he lives by. A story that he lives for. Something that eases out a man in turmoil. And that story hardly ever pans out. What only pans out is music. You are musicians, humans. You are not here to write stories. You are here to write music. And music is not written by hands or guitar picks. Its written by the soul, its howls and laughter and cries. And you know no bounds of a soul's fantasy.
Maybe this was where I failed. I was trying to utter words, write sentences. Maybe I should ask her to listen to the songs of the heart, not the flexes of hands. Maybe.
No comments:
Post a Comment