top of page
Reader Submissions
He is the scent of dusty books, boiling chemicals, natural essences, and fragrant chalk— intoxicating, but still a substance she'd willingly take in. He exudes an aroma that is heavy, pervasive, and reminiscent of all the secrets held by the ever-unfolding cosmos. Eons may pass, but the riddle that constitutes his existence will forever remain anchored to the unmapped depths, and she found that fascinating. He is everything enigmatic and wonderful, and she is hopelessly in awe of the rest of him.
The will of the gods is painted across the vast, eventide sky. The gleaming stars, speeding comets, rotating planets, swirling voids. The entire primordial cosmos and all its mysterious bones— it is a sable curtain that drapes itself over all terrestrial entities; a celestial kingdom that spells hope for all of humankind.
What she finds quite hilarious about being a writer is that her eyes can see through even the faintest of things, finding the poetic in every color, every hue, every texture, in the most quiet of movements, and in the most subtle of differences. It's almost burdensome. And here, right at this very moment, she saw it once again— the stroke that completes an artwork, the word that illuminates the abstract and enlightens the obscure. She found it before she could even set out to search for it.
Shrouded in secrecy and mystery, but gentle. The deep, blue skies. The sun smiling from the horizon. The sea. It found her.
Long have I been shunned by the glory of the sun, and not even the moon was graceful enough to offer me solace during cold nights. People say I used to love the stars-- passionately enamored by the ethereal depth of the skies. I wonder if the ocean's just as deep and enigmatic? It's vicious enough to swallow warships and entire cities, and gracious enough to give earth a heart. Would it be so kind to accept me as well?
The countryside was supposed to be quiet, peaceful, and everything calm. They made it sound so divine to my ears, and I truly am sure that it was supposed to be like that. The abundant foliage, humble provincial shops, taste of salt in the air, the vast ocean in the distance— everything spelled hope, and it slowly crawled its way inside my heart. But why, when did the wind start feeling like sharp gusts piercing through the frailty of my skin, and the sun a scorching punishment from the heavens?
She is the eye of her own storm. Feeding her whirlwinds with hatred, singing them lullabies of wars and woe. And within this calamity she named after herself, she perishes with nothing but fleeting memories of the sun dispersed in every nook and cranny of her body— clinging onto every festering bone, clipped onto all her broken parts, reminding her of the gentle wind she once was.
But she's beautifully destructive, for this damnation is hers, and hers alone.
bottom of page