Pieces
Maybe
sometimes, deluding yourself into being brave is the easiest thing to do.
Because if you allow yourself to be broken, you’ll keep counting the pieces
forever.
শূন্যতার মাপকাঠি
শূন্যতার কি কোনও মাপকাঠি আছে ? How do we define emptiness? Is it the empty terrace being burnt to a crisp by the midsummer sun? Is it the smell of staleness in a rickety, late night bus bouncing along on a potholed road? Is it the hollowness in the eyes staring back from the mirror? Is it the ballpoint pen that breathes its last in the middle of a word that wasn’t meant to be written? Is it the boiling anger just at the base of the throat, an ancient emotion that’s actually grief? Or is it the sound of the screams that prick my consciousness and scar my dreams? একমুঠো বালির মতো ; হাতের মুঠো খুললেই সব শূন্য। বুকের ভেতর একটা মনখারাপি অসুখ , ঠোঁটের কোনায় এক নিমেষের জীবন। Is all emptiness always the same, or am I more empty than you? Which is more empty – a beautiful envelope with venom inside, or a resounding laugh without a soul?
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