Friday, October 14, 2016

A Strand of You

I was on the table when a strand of your hair came calling. I could see you in the kitchen, your face at once a storm and a breeze.

I curled the single strand of loving you into imagined shapes and spoke to it about fascinating tales. As it played on my fingers, I could hear the music from its silent songs.

I had half the heart to carry it with me home and hide it in a book marked you. It smelt like July Flowers. It smelt so much of you.

Sunday, October 9, 2016

Of Warts and Moles

I think about you constantly. I wake up with your thoughts playing in the foreground. I clench on to you as sleep invades my world and drowns me, one thought of you at a time. The melange of your thoughts continue in my dreams. I dream that I have been in a crash and you come to visit me at the hospital. There is a recurring dream in which I keep crying because I broke your toe nail. There is also this dream of you taking me on a long drive across a ravine, the car chasing the clouds and your hair smelling of wild lilies. There are other dreams as well, the once I cannot write about but you would understand.

There was a time when I used to be extremely perturbed with having to constantly carry you in me. I would often pray for a one-time memory wash. My soul would often be heavy from my burden of you. I would often cry myself to sleep, hoping that some bit of you would probably drift away through those tears. I have cried for my grandma too. Earth shattering hollers so that she can hear me in heavens and come down again. But yours were muted. Just a steady flow of my love for you drenching my pillows, and a weak moan now and then, as if an unborn child of mine had died.

But in time, my shackles of you transformed into strange limbs. Some bit of you turned into skin, some took the form of beautiful scars and warts and all.

And my dear, all these years, I have let you be, just the way live in me.

Some thoughts have to keep playing in our idle minds, why then should it not be yours? Most of them are so brilliantly colored and beautiful. Most of them smell so wonderful, quite like you.

Saturday, October 8, 2016

Abandoned !

Once a wise grey owl perched on a large sullen tree in a garden in ruins. The butterflies hushed their wings, the snakes crawled for a while like snails and the wind that was already tired from all its windiness, screeched to a stop.

The owl would now look to the right and then look to the left. It would turn it's furry head all around without a rustle. It's bright golden eyes pierced the low light dusk falling like a shround on to an unloved body.

When the night finally drenched this forgotten garden in its mossy grey, the wise owl screeched a chilling shriek, flapped it's giant wings, and through a tear in the fabric of the universe, escaped into another dimension.

Saturday, September 24, 2016

The Fear of Grey

Autumn brings in memories of muted grey and flying ash. Memories of fallen leaves gradually letting go of their greens.

Autumn paints itself on a desolate canvas.

It is that season wherein your eyes draw back your tears into itself. It is that season when your hope falters and your faith waivers like the last of the twigs holding on to some imaginary leaf.

Such is wretched misery of this waiting, it transforms your soul into a refugee. You grab on to made up memories from some imaginary springtime and trudge through your life believing that your world is this bleak canvas, and you that grey tramp ploughing your soul through limbo.

No. It is not a nightmare, for it is not night yet, just the dreary day draped in grey.

There are no dreams, for to dream, you need to get to sleep, and you rarely get to sleep on days that stretches for years and is blatantly grey.

But when the first set of silly shoots find their way through sunken craggy gnarly wood, we drench in its first shameless showers and hurry to erase memories of Autumn from our minds. Green replaces grey. Hope that springs eternal, brings back faith, brings back love. The only hint of Autumn is in the hurried glances that we keep giving our loved ones. It is in the sudden desperate hugs and fierce embraces. The fear of draught scalds your soul, singes your being. Just once is one time too many.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

The Music in my Life

Do not ask me why I miss you.  That answer would come to me, eventully. Some day sometime in the future I will find myself not thinking about you.  And in not thinking about you, I will end up thinking about you just like that.

All stories are my stories, but I am not my stories. I am yours. When we are older and our world is quieter than it is now; I will be in those intriguing tales that your heart spins to give you company.

Do not ask me why I miss you. That answer would come to me when it comes to me. Why hurry?