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Challenge of the Week LXXXVII
Descriptive Writing. One of the four foundational elements of the written word. You can write about anything you want, poetry or Prose; but make sure to focus on your descriptions. Whether you're describing a character, a setting, or an emotion, we want the imagery to leap out of the page. But tread lightly - there is such a thing as too much description. We're looking for that perfect balance. Imagery that sings, but doesn't scream.
TI28
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Nyctophile

There's a delicate scent lingering on the room ... mixed with the wafts of petrichor ... smells like tranquility. Must be the chrysanthymums in the garden. The sour tinge of still tiny raw mangoes added in the fragrance. Night always tastes good. Always. Atleast to me.. I see the things I refuse to in daylight..The salty pain .. The blue smiles . Forced to deceive. The constant lump that fights to come need not be thare anymore. It is freed . Like floating on cold stream.. Peaceful. Numb . Yet watching the corpses of memories float by you. Knowing that they can never be rejuvenated . Only pain can be rejuvenated. Yet letting it go. Yes, I'm definitely addicted to night. Cherry on top of dessert if its stormy. Like today. Feels like I am seeing my insides on a mirror. Wonder why it calms me down. Watching a tempest outside makes me feel good inside. Maybe because I've started to believe that the inside calamity is the toughest to face. While outside ones really soothes me because it feels like I am in equilibrium with nature. Storms are a beauty though. Each storm has its own significance. Some say much. Some show much. Some grumbles while some makes nature dance to its beat. Dark night grows darker. Trees bend down in humble bow. I wish I could unleash the storm inside. Strike of thunder . For a few seconds I was pulled back to reallity by all those light creeping through the bosom of sky like spider webs. "Veins of Tempest" I thought " Go and spread chaos..." . A neatly arranged row of books near the bedside proudly look at me at a flash.The next flash revealed my pale self in the mirror. The being doesn't have one drop of pride in her

though. My rebellion lies on the chosen words that I adorn my insecurities with. Something I own for a change unlike all the other things which never can be mine, yet tempts me to be theirs. Or do I really? Who is it that said " Some are born to sweet delight while some are born to endless night?" . Some poet maybe. Clustering darkness . Is it suffocating really? Or is it serenity? Curtains flip.. sighs grows heavier... i look out ... yeah, the crysanthymums are there . Mango trees smiling. I can smell them right through and I can feel the thunder enlightening the room in between the patters.. the flashing light touches the books again. The words brighten like glowing torches. Titles... authors... Black letters in midst of fusion of colours... Silver ones in a background of green ... like the silver thunder that peeks through the dark shadowy green leaves. Funny how they change colour in morning light. I want to drink that green, taste the acridity, the bitterness. I want to dive in this muddy blackness and let it indulge me, taking in whatever it has to offer. I feel for the sandals but then think better of it and get up to go outside barefooted. Night like this cannot be tasted inside four walls. As I cross my threshold of white marble, cold smoothness cease to exist under my feet. Instead the pitch black softness of gooey mud licks my skin, wraps at my ankle. Every caress of the wind invokes goosebumps. I will always mark my soul as a nyctophile !

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