Updated: Jul 24, 2019
//From all the myths you carved your self-image on to your real identity//
You are not a Beatles’s 4:30 minutes song on repeat, emanating from the neighbor’s backdoor. Nor you are the antique cassette placed on the third shelf, which hasn’t been dusted since the past year. Not even the moon as it’s been counted on by hundreds of heartbroken lovers. Lovers deceiving their loved ones over a grey piece of rock.
Nor the flower which is killed by a mortal for appeasing her beloved.
I conceal my swelling emotions, but when I open up, I no longer recognize the person I transform into.
You are the place where I was born, the petal sandwiched between the pages of Neruda’s twenty poems, Venus of Van Gogh’s starry night. The ultimate piece of the my jigsaw puzzle, Home to the wanderer, You’re like home, to me.
-Venus, the Goddess of Love.
Written by Sanya Srishti | http://instagram.com/sanyavangogh