Bibaswan Maharana

  Not all the doors open to rooms full of lights; some just end up leading you to a dimly lit little space, cozier than any known limits of comfort, a corner of the house that I call my home. It had things magically crafted into my shape as if all those pens, pillows, curtains, small lights, quills, papers, windows, and the little gap which graced the allowed interruption of zephyr during the sleepless nights and sunlight during the lazy mornings were made for me… as if the personified leftovers of my last love have customized everything for the longing needs of my unconscious-self to feel lovelorn! Stepping on the cold marbles of the cimmerian graveyard of my eternal secrets, I mailed a xeric look that asked forgiveness from all those inky souls and bamboo extracts which were my oxygen till lately when I stopped breathing words. All my blank pages were left twattling with the wind gushing in from the half-closed window and there sat my spine hugging the painted sand atoms of the c...