Let’s live those words. 

Don’t bring me stars;

let’s climb and sit upon the Masjid top together

listening to Allah’s words. 

let’s be those birds who relax themselves 

after hours of searching home 

and sit upon the top

reacting to the words they hear

and fly again,

in search of their station. 

we are transitory,

Let’s be eternal like Allah. 
-snigdha. 

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i should’ve lied. 

30th August, 1:38 am. 


//Late again. It’s too late, for me to stay awake till this hour but, I couldn’t help myself but sit on the work chair and my work table with my journal before me. Yearning for the words to land on it. Yearning for the words that belong to you. I should’ve lied; about loving you. Like you did. I miss that sound on the other side of the door I used to hear, every third hour under the love emitted by the moon. I swear, it was stronger than yours. What I’ve always wanted was to be crowned, like I was not the queen, but a queen who was really loved. I know, and so does my heart; the sound I’d never hear again still haunts me, when it used to lighten up my soul before. I see things changing, not quite fast. I wish they did. I wish they moved forward quite as fast as you moved on. Even on some nights I think about the old us, and think about how we just ended. You did not steal my heart, instead you forced your own self to love me, and feigned love. You cannot be blamed equally. And it wasn’t really stealing. It was making me realise I was nothing, not a soul which could be loved easily. No, not love. But could be loved in feigned form. I cannot explain what happened next between us, nobody does. It’s you, who’s the only evidence: if something really happened or not. I blame you for making me grow Hatred towards myself. For tearing off my hair when I used to look at my reflection and saw the worst person who’s ever been; but that’s not my real name. Some might say it’s weakness. One thing I’ll never forget, I climbed up the top, no one believed me, this was his side of the story. Her’s was yet to be written.

Late again, the pages felt blank with just a dot yearning to form into phrases, but memories restrained me from writing; which I can’t disobey even if my pen starts working next minute. //


-sr. 

DREAM & its Fantasists

I endure a dream every night. I discern a dream every night. Sometimes its you, sometimes it’s nothing. I feels its a dream only when I dream of you, I feel its a dream only when I’m with you. I still dream of us looking at the stars at every night’s third hour and I feel it our old selves sharing thoughts at exactly the same hour. Pointing at the stars and spotting our past selves there, but then I wake uo and realise- its only a dream. Its only a fantasy and we are its fantasists. Or maybe its just me. We were always meant to be together- that’s what my heart said, we’re not- that’s what my mind said. My heart and brain were pastly at a war, my heart saying its our Bosoms which deserve to be one. But no, its my broken soul giving a voice- ‘You’re too incapable of finding yourself some one else’. 

I believe, hearts are just meant to be broken… Hearts are meant to be buried. Burying us with itself, burying us with everything we emitted as love. Not because the one you loved is the only one responsible for abandoning, not because you wanted your story to die. Only because your story had to be contrasting. 



_SNIGDHA.

Roads

​And then suddenly I start thinking about a new topic for writing a Prose. Roads. These rough roads. Yes, I’m in love with these roads. The roads I’m walking on, the roads I’m traveling on. The roads I see from my car and roads I feel. With every passing movement of my bare feet and the wheels of my car, I feel another me. I look down at the road. I’m bare feet. I peep outside my car’s glass and I feel relieved. Relieved from the world. I feel the air brushing my face, brushing my body. With every passing second I feel the roughness I’m walking on. The only way to survive, to feel life. I see your beaming face, grin like a Cheshire cat. You’re beauty, you’re life. And life’s a propossessing thing, as pretty as a picture. I have a million reasons to live, and you had a zillion to leave me. My audio jack’s plugged and I don’t really care about the world giving a voice. I need not to sound wild and remind them about my existence. I’m happy, happier than I once was. Happier than I ever will be. And happier I could ever think I would be. Life’s a frisky play. Play it aptly. 

~Snigdha :v

@fantasist_and_scribbler/instagram

@she_pens_the_moonlight/instagram

Snigdha Rohilla/facebook.com

I love you, Stranger.

Can dreams never get real? Will I always yearn for it to be a reality when there’s nothing which can bring it to actuality? 

I dream of you every night. Are you written only in my dreams? I don’t know who you are, but yet I know a lot about you. You’re the one who caresses my cheeks when my eyes let a shower, unable to happily accept the fact that I have someone. You’re the one who jumps in the cold river with me and then plant your lips on mine and I frantically falling for you again. You’re the one with whom I share life and talk about it sitting on the roof top, adoring the stars and wondering we would be there in the sky together. We would die together. But our love wouldn’t. I don’t really know what I did to fall for you this crazily and finding you as my lover. I never knew about anyone to be insanely mad after me, yet being so solicitous. You promised to stay forever. But now all I’m yearning for is to bring this dream to actuality. I love you, stranger.

~Snigdha :”)

Picture stolen from : Pinterest. 

My Instagram page : @fantasist_and_scribler. 

The 11:11 Wish.

Then there was this time. At 11:11 I started inking the paper and never knew I would pen a 400 word thing with zillions of emotions I wanted to shower but couldn’t. This has always been my weakest this. I was a!ways afraid to face you in a person. Those Goosebumps I had while writing, were rare. The rarest. Everything couldn’t be penned down. My brain storming itself was the most furious thing that minute. The only reason I started at 11:11 was that the wishes get filled. Never knew mine ever could. I never drew hearts ending it, neither you did. Were you afraid too? Or it was only me who destroyed the tip of the pen after writing? Was it you who wrote me bleeding words with red? Why red? For me it symbolises DEATH. And why grey? It symbolises DISBELIEF & LONELINESS. I knew I had you. Was I still alone? Alone like another girl spending time by the coast? You were great in the time you spent with me. And then suddenly I start to think about life. Times. And love. The times which were content. The time which introduced me love, forgetting the person who taught me love. It was with my 11:11 wish which got into strewn pieces and no one came to hold them back.

~Snigdha :’)