• Snorts


Ariktha M. Koundinya

Mere mortals and pathetic excuses for human beings, listen – somewhere in between the voices howling in your head, is a rabbit hole, and I need you to listen. There’s a star in there collapsing within you, listen. Listen as the Universe wails watching the death of her daughter; the tears that begin to fall, the thunder rising within the cosmos, the sky – dressed in the debris of the fallen star and its deepening orange, listen.

Listen – there goes the first shriek – the orchestra of emotions raging within, the star dust that is somehow getting in your lungs. Listen – as your heart slams against your ribcage, your blood vessels inflating in your head and your voice wanting no more than to rip your vocal chords apart. Listen – the funeral is on Wednesday, and everyone is going to talk about how she isn’t really gone and how she’s still here living in our memory and all that, but it’s not just that, is it?

Today, something was taken away from you. Right now, for a moment, look away from this and look at the sky above you. Look at the scars left behind – every death leaves behind one – you always knew they were there, but you never wanted to look at them, did you, because it always brought you back to the same place? “…and for what ?”

So, look away quickly. The death of a star should be just that – the death of a star – nothing more, right?

So, let it go; a couple of years roll by, and there it is again – you listen to the storm brewing from the thunder, the sky throwing himself on the ashes of stardust, the symphony of anger and hatred. You listen as your heart threatens to break through and bleed out of your chest, the explosion in your head, the silence in your throat, words of deceit and promises broken before they were made.

The decades pass and the scars puncture the cosmos. The endless cycle of the storm, the sky, the music, the palpitations – the storm, the sky, the music and the palpitations – Life and death, life and death over and over and over, aeons and aeons of ecstasy and agony repeating itself into madness and the universe whispering into your ear like an echo – “and what for ?”

Until you scream amidst the falling stars, your voice through the thunder as you cough up the stardust accumulated in your lungs mixed with blood – tears dripping down your chin – a strange mix of moonlight and water.

You think of the weariness that this brings; you attend the funeral and make small talk with the wind.

See, the truth is, right now, you’re tired. You’re just so tired, that you want to go to bed, and so you do.

And as you silently tip toe out, you hear everyone talk about how you’re not really gone, and how you’re still here and all that, and with the last breath, the cosmos whispers into your ear “…and for what ?”

You’ve woken up again, haven’t you?

Stop. Listen.

Somewhere between the voices howling in your head , is a rabbit hole, and I need you to listen. There’s a star in there collapsing within you, listen. Listen as the universe wails watching the death of her daughter.

The funeral is on Wednesday.

I needn’t go on right now, my friend, instead I leave you with lines from a poem of mine:

“The winds that screeched into our ears, and the waves that grew into tides, His wing feathers that I was sunk in, pigmented black, that he withdrew; Death, my guardian, for I, the angel of death! And so I wept, at this magnificent beast in front of my eyes ‘But how long have I lived ?’ And he touched my cheek – looked down at me, and smiled And like a drop of ink stabbed into water And with the chamber of my diaphragm stabbed by the brutal unapologetic truth, he said ‘But my darling, you never did.’ “

Ariktha M Koundinya is a 16 year old who believes in fairytales and is deeply frustrated by the crushing reality of human existence. She writes poetry of her madness, winding it with metaphors so as to make it look pretty. More often than not, she is found with ink stained fingers, looking up at the sky expecting it to shatter and fall to the ground like shards of broken glass. But more than a poet or an artist, Ariktha is simply a little girl, lost in Enid Blyton fantasies, who knows that magic only happens when she closes her eyes, and so she smiles in the darkness.