Yes, this is an interlude.
The story started way longer but you have arrived here now, at an interlude.
I am Moghiat and I am no one special or worthy of praise.
But sometimes the trials of common people are the trials that you wish to read.
Because unlike heroes and leaders, commoners may lose both their battles and their wars.
Unlike my inspirations, I may never find the turning point of my life.
But maybe, the unexplained writings I leave here may inspire you; for the better or the worse.
An earthen pot
Lay off the coast
Of all the waves
The eyes of it's creator make
Assumed itself forgot.
In this village, we all have the same names. Thousands live here, we are nomads - shifting places and skins. A lively neighborhood really. sometimes it rains over just my house, sometimes it rains for the entire stretch of the road - and sometimes someone from the other end of the village comes to give umbrellas and tiny reminders of times when things were sunny, a scribbled note that they wrote for me.
I have two neighbours, I know my left neighbour very well, she's a day younger than me - and I like to think I know my right just as much, but she's just a day older than me and that makes things a little unsure. When I'm sick the younger one leaves food in the fridge for me to eat, and I ask the older one to do my laundry. When I go to sleep I leave the socks near the bed and a filled water bottle so that the older one finds it easy to go for a run. So that her neighbour doesn't cry over her weak knees.
I know the girl 3 houses down the road is scared and needs to travel far away to meet big people from her work.
So the girls in the five houses up the road beside mine do their boring work on their laptop and save it for me, and I make boring pie charts and graphs from it for the girl 3 houses down.
I always wanted to raise a daughter to prove to my mother that I can be better than she was. So I pretend the older girl next door is my daughter. I give her carrots, left overs from the left door neighbour, beetroots, compassion, guavas and mistakes I made that she can learn from. And she passes them down to her neighbour.
Our mothers are always younger than us, and our daughters older than us. We all hope that somewhere down the road our grand grand daughter in her deathbed feels peace when she lets her last breath go.
It takes a village to raise a child. The village is me, and so is the child.
-
I’ve been burnt by your kind before,
Please don’t ask for more.
I have been fiddled and diddled and dangled in fire
blackened by the heat of your anger and ire,
And washed up ashore in a mythical myre
In the corner of my mind, where I’m colorblind.
I have lent my heart and bent around
and bit and swallowed empty air
To fill my belly just to carry heavy things
That came with loving you.
I think it’s fair of me to keep no company,
Don’t come near me, it is selfish but safer for me.
TW: ED.
I wasn't sure if I should upload this. But anyway, here it is. If any part of this work is offensive or insensitive, please let me know.
I do not have an ED, this is merely my interpretation of how it might be for someone to go through it, criticisms are welcome. I do not intend to glorify or romanticize ED and for those who might be struggling with ED, I hope you get through this and I hope you find the strength and support to defeat it.
It must be a successful year for the poets and wordsmiths, plenty of misery to churn their tears into words, plenty of irony in the world around.
