Inspired by what we know as the Old English, the piece talks about the issue of mental health, and strives to bring it into light with the aid of a cry of a girl who is compelled to seek some real help now. The piece thus tries to make the reader understand her condition that is too indiscernible for many.
The same hence, serves the purpose of the conversation that one needs to have on a sensitive issue of this kind. The lines have been metaphorically put together. A reader may find it a bit intricate to grasp the actual meaning out of it while reading it for the first time.
The theme breathe prompted me to come up with a piece of mine like this because, I felt that breathe, as a verb, was somehow semantically figurative of the necessity to live, and not just stay alive. One needs to live the moments one gets, and be grateful for all of them to cherish the essence of the value that life holds. Mental illness is an issue that derails the attainment of such actions. The solution is an encounter with the same for the way out is through it, just as Robert Frost once said;
"The only way out is through. You will get through; I will get through."
Meet me in the middle,
with an open mind,
set aside differences,
art we the same kind...
'twill be a wood of some ravine may that be a stranger to light, but must thou know me dear dear heart bearing a blood so stale, must thee be not unfamiliar to what am I - did I not summon what lays in ye possession of mine, implores me heart for thou ears of lenity and seconds of merely a few - could I not perceive ye dusk was that to befall me.
Will I not be on me knees for inflicted enough is already a soul thy skin embodies to heed me plight; yet, must I let thou be aware of ye delight of an unknown kind may thee never be aware of. 'Tis ye delight of me morbid mind to behold some listener kind enough to lend ye ears bereft of a facade in the light keeping me succeeded. Entreat I to allow thyself on ye paving hath I created for thee, but with ye perceptions leading thou with ye predictions of something gay, nay! must thee abandon them for not ye heaven but, me sake. May thou stride to seek the same in an abode of nothingness, yet, entreat I, may thou continue despite the wilderness.
Can I tell thee that will the larks be deep asleep in the lands of the green, and the colours but, will they not sing, and can thine advent not bother them enough to abnegate ye clasps of ye slumber art they so already ye captives of, and there weave a rhapsody of the speechless on ye leaves of maple, art that a lover's epistle bearing clandestine treatise of some scandalous yet, sweet little rendezvous of such affection found in secrecy; yet, will I ask thou to hold me hand in spite of ye oddity, might thine fancy be an admirer of.
Aware am I of ye apocalypse do I bear the calibre of summoning but, 'twill be mine, and a catastrophe of me own...
Not do I intend to vandalize thee but, here lies a pile of seeds of such dormancy yet, not art they dormant, but, wearing ye nudity for has their skin been torn off too fast too early - collapse must they lest art they sown.
Art tired, ye hands of me own; beseech I, a hand now...
Written by Ananya Dutta
English Honours, Bharati College, University Of Delhi
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