All our memories stay buried in these drafts. All the words left unsaid, all the places left unexplored, all the feelings left to express; lined up one by one into the drafts.
It has witnessed the countless trails of salty drops making a river on the rosy flesh, escaping the sea of emotions spiraling like a whirlwind into the eyes; a blink of an eye and a tear runs free from its clutch. These drafts have seen it all. They’ve seen the childish promises, they’ve borne an untold teen-hood story, they’ve hidden the gravest secrets, and they’ve absorbed countless shades of love. They’ve seen the fights they’ve seen the patch ups. They’ve seen the arguments and apologies.
From a misunderstanding to a love filled rehearsal, they’ve seen it all, they’ve borne it all.
They’ve been there when a little girl was writing down all her fears, they’ve been there when the young beautiful wrote about her crush, with a scarlet shade of blush invading her soft flesh, they’ve been there when a lady first wrote about her life with her better half, they’ve been there to be a place for the same woman to write down all her crushed hopes and broken promises.
They’ve seen it all, they’ve heard it all.
They’ve seen the hearts go cold, they’ve felt the rising tension, they’ve heard the never-ending arguments, they’ve been through the drunk remorse of a tired man, they’ve touched a broken soul. Rambled thoughts, cluttered mind, peaceful heart, lustful love – all saved in the drafts. Life stories singing an unsung tale of hearts turned sore and time healing the wounds, of life taking unsaid turns and blessings coloring the path with unconditional love.
They’ve seen it all they’ve felt it all.
They speak volumes for the tongue abandoned by words and for the violent love made by keys and fingers giving birth to passages of raw emotions. They stand untouched, unheard, far from the reach of the world, seen by only the ones who wrote them. They’ve experienced bright color of love, painted by trembling, amateur hands. They’ve been there to witness hearts dancing with joy, spreading the fragrance of joy and laughter with mere words.
They’ve seen it all, they’ve smelt it all.
Drafts are not merely some words. Drafts are the souvenirs of long forgotten fragrances left behind with the bits of crushed flowers that once blossomed with vibrant emotions.
They hold in them, the power of destruction; the power of love.
Such is the mightiness of the drafts that they sink in every little emotion, every single idea, without a trail for anyone else to trace. They remain hidden, away from the notice of the world, into the layers of our mailbox, filled with dusty memories that were kept safe into the corners of our hearts.
Such is the anonymity of drafts – they’ve seen it all, they’ve absorbed it all.