Maybe he was punched right in the eye, by life. May be that's why he could see better. Deep down to your bones, shallow and perturbed. He would peer through the glass wall in his head and capture all your insecurities— click, click. He smelled of cigarettes and books and cigarettes and some more books he would never stop buying. 'We're all pieces of art', he would always say, giving a reason to the riots in our heads. He would come to you with a mouthful of questions and gulp the answers even before you move your lips to form words.
He loved, loved hard. He let love grow on his skin. May be that's why he'd never let me strip him naked. He harbored grief, for he wanted to become a home to his own ghosts : unapologetic.
May be he wouldn't agree, but he needed a home too. ~Bhawika Jethwani
W R I T E R' S B L O C K⠀
A little something to stay motivated. It is so easy to make excuses for not writing, even though I know it is the thing for me.⠀
Do you get writer's block? How do you tackle it?⠀