TheWritingObsession

I was looking at him, my heart aching, my soul braking, barely holding back the tears from stepping to my eyes. It took almost every drop of my courage and strength to overcome a lump in the throat. -Hey… - my voice was trembling. He was still sleepy, confused why this morning started earlier, confused what got in to me. The morning started as always - the alarm which always painfully told me that we have to separate soon and the awaiting rollercoaster of emotions until I can see him again. The sweet warm hands covered me in a warm hug, soft lips touching my forehead -Morning. – A simple word, my favorite sound – his low, sleepy voice. I could wake up to it every day if it was up to me. I wrapped around him, like each and every time, with the thought that this might be the last time, except, this time it could really be truth. -Morning. – I whispered and pressed my face in his firm but warm and soft chest, hiding my face which could give away that something wasn’t right. I felt his

Da bambino non capivo cosa avessi di strano Camminavo sulla terra come fossi un marziano Io che a quindic’anni ancora non ti conoscevo Mi dicono è un po’ strano infondo siamo nati assieme Io che mi chiedo ancora se arriverò ad assomigliarti Quando un giorno forse mai avrò il coraggio di mostrarti Tu che sei l’identità che al mondo non ho mai ammesso Perché se mi guardo dentro ora non c’è più un “me stesso” In questo mondo di fumo che mi ha ridotto in cenere Mi guardo e non mi vedo nello specchio di Venere Non credo in questo scudo che mi han messo in mano Quando mi hanno imposto un ruolo in quanto essere umano Questo orgoglio, questa forza che non mi appartiene Non è azzurro il sangue che mi scorre nelle vene No, non mi riconosco nella stirpe di Adamo Io mi sento terrestre in un ambiente marziano

In the classroom's silent hum, I cast my gaze. A quiet spectator, just like always. Something whispers inside my heart, As I watch my classmates, each playing their own part. There is the girl, With a smile that brightens anyone’s day, Who is a star in every way. She is a dancer, A radiant blur. And I know, That I will never be like her. Then there is the boy. The genius on display, Who is amazing in every way. From answers in class to sports on the field, His High Jump prowess is also unsealed. He can do everything, And I know, That I will never be like him. Climbing slowly up the stairs, I swear to be the silent contender. I still hear them in the distance, I know I can be better. The stairs are steep, And this journey is long. But I know that below, Is not where I belong. At each step I stumble and fall, Failures constantly haunting my climb. I lean against the wall, And try to shake away the voices in my mind. They scream at me like an anthem, Reminding me, “You will

An hour later, as the door to Mida's room opened, she was expecting lunch. That was the routine in the hospital after all. Torture shot, and then lens soup, bread and cheese. A virus might have whipped through the world and changed most everything, but there was still garlic flavoured nan bread. But instead she found Shirin standing in the doorway. The younger girl was eyeing Mida as if she wasn't really sure she could trust her eyes. She had to look past the ruin of her face to see her friend, but once she did, she was seeing Mida and she opened up her arms. Shirin was fifteen. She was tiny and soft with thick, black hair that fell in waves around her shoulders and unblemished skin white as milk, the most beautiful thing Mida thought she'd had ever seen. Not even the stars in the Bollywood movies were as lovely as Shirin. Shirin didn't utter a word until she'd climbed onto Mida's bed, on her left side so she doesn’t hurt Mida's leg. There she curled up against Mida, who cuddled her

The man leaned against the crenellated parapet of the small turret of the staircase. This narrow turret rose more than two fathoms above the large tower of Nesle to which it gave access, and which itself overlooked the Seine with its fourteen fathoms in height. Thus, at over sixteen fathoms above the ground, the man had an unobstructed view of Paris and the Louvre that stood proudly on the other bank of the Seine. However, his gaze was not directed towards the royal palace; instead, he was watching a young woman dressed in red and white who had just come out of the grand hotel of Nesle. After a brief hesitation during which she glanced at the roof of the hotel, the young woman entered a small mahogany carriage to which were harnessed two chestnut mares who pawed the ground in anticipation of departure. A few moments earlier, two other figures, a man and a woman of a certain age dressed in the rich attire of nobles, had taken their places in the coach. But it was not these two that