Young Writers Society

From meeting her for the first time till today, the encounter had freed me from what I loathed the most—the reality and the monotonous nature of life, which had caught up with me and had made my imagination barren, was returning. The visions from my new friend’s memories and the world that I saw helped me immensely in rejuvenating my artistic desires. The morning sun seemed more bright with its fiery orange and dazzling yellow rays bouncing in through my window in the lighthouse. Being away from that grey spectred existence filled me with a lush sense of hope and beauty. I started to look forward to the dark nights when the stars would spread through the skies; for now, I did not need to sleep while reminiscing about the old pain and the day’s scars. The nights would be filled with a playful, heartwarming chat of signs and hand gestures with her and of course with some songs which I saw and felt. Her ~ The one who had become my purpose to survive and an inspiration to create new every day and enjoy my life. The one who had become my MUSE.

As for her, she found a reason to hate herself a little less. The weight of the deaths that her cursed voice had caused was overbearing; nonetheless, she learned to blame herself less each day. She found her HAVEN in him.

What both of us thought as a cursed existence—a burden that life had thrown at us since birth brought us where we were right now and gave us a new bond—the bond forged in the depths of deepest empathy, shared struggles, and strengths, which somehow helped to drive away whatever little of the dark gloom hanging around in our individual existence. While we both knew these curses, which we were born with, would always remain there, having each other as friends and perhaps as a family beyond the known bounds made it a lot easier to bear with them and fight every day.

After all, everyone is flawed; even the purest of white paints made of ivory shells are also a bit tinted, and the darkest of the blacks made from soot has specks of greyish powders, or those brushes of mine that gave the perfect strokes on the canvases have disrupted bristles and broken handles. Even the pencils that I used had broken leads, and the hands with which I painted had broken nails, paint stains, and rough cuts. But each of them created beautiful masterpieces of various hues and shades, which brought peace. So maybe living as two flawed, unexpected individuals in the world who constantly chased perfection and outward flawlessness wasn’t that bad of a thing now, was it?

WE WOULD JUST BE FINE WITH EACH OTHER BY OUR SIDE AS A FAMILY.