I like the disarrangement around me.
The half-read books, the rattling pages of which roar out stories good and no-so-good;
the half-finished coffee, the aroma of which fills the room with a familiar sense of relief;
the flowers in the vase that have dried out miserably;
the plethora of unfinished letters stacked in between the old magazines, that were addressed to a destination now lost;
the wax which has melted out of the blown-out candle,weary of being the sole witness to those words cried out but left unheard.
All of this,each of these misfits comfort me. They console me that yes I can ,as well, be a part of this chaotic world.
But do I really need to?

It is messed up, isn't it? Don't you agree?
The definitions seem changing, ain't they?
Who has the time to love, they all just need backups.Every being there is scared of loneliness and too contrite to accept it. Building up a virtual world of chaos, dwelling in it, they keep themselves entertained with the feeling of belongingness yet  won't bear any threats to their protected solipsism,absurd!

Love demands the purest of you,the honest of you, the strongest of you and the whole of you.
But they can't afford that, that would be a lost deal. Demanding total consumption of your being, well risky and overtly painstaking, isn't it? Centered around "self", they can't afford to be consumed, just want to strive through the chaos of sounds, too much of just sounds.

I am a different kind of a mess. I'm scared to be heard, but ready to be consumed. A soul with a void, an amazing void which can only be filled with this vacuum of love. Yes,love is a vacuum. The establishment of  this being recognized by a stark blank space of wantingness. This is a wantingness of your being to be consumed, with a passion that's unbridled; this passion that ignites a thirst which desires no fulfillment. This is vacuum which sets you free of the desire to posses, to own. This vacuum provides you with the freedom.

I want my "self" to be centered around that dark entity who would dare to love this kind of Love, this vacuum that I inhabit. Both of us, our scars that would cry out the stories of our devatation would become a cure to each other, without asking for the cause of them. And together we would be lost to that chaos recognized and cherished by our vacuums.

So which chaos is more desirable?
Truth does not need to rant about it's existence, it creates it's dignified space in a silent tone; it does not let itself  be lost among the hollow clankings.
You love the chaos around you? What is it...........

TOO LOUD  OR  BARELY AUDIBLE

THEME DIVIDER- 1/