I never had the habit of marking the dates in the wall-hanged calendar but a few times I do remember the dates except for those dates which my mind says that after today no today is going to be the same, fortunately, today is that kind of day for me. right now, at this very moment (doesn’t it obvious that in my case how obliviously I live in the present moment with a forgotten philosophy somewhere in my eyes that “you won’t wake up in tomorrow until you’re conscious all you have is today and this very moment )
after this evening if I trek down these hills, cross this valley, and step ahead towards the urbanity, my psyche is telling me that nothing will be the same, and nothing will remain the same. this. this longing for love and desire to be loved is the last illusion I’m holding myself in my eyes and after today even these illusions too fade away, if they do fade I do not have a single clue about how should I remember the person I have loved. I have almost forgotten how my heartbeat rises whenever I’m talking to you and how my hand shivers whenever I’m beside you ( though never near ).
How much ever I try to remember are topics that hooked us together in those conversations and how all those minutes of talk funneled down to what I have always felt “I Love You”. I was in love many times, but this passion, this intensity was never there inside me. I am amazed to find all these new even uses in me that are never unveiled themselves before.
when I yanked myself out of PTSD a few years back with lots of literature and poetic pieces, after getting out from it i realized not even one of those poems had the word love in them. i realized this when i attempted to submit my poems to a literary magazine and the topic was ‘remnants of love’. After months of contemplation I came to a conclusion that I don’t think I was built for love that is comfortable and uncomplicated. There is restlessness in me that will always be drawn to dark, madly passionate things. The intoxicationg highs and devastating lows. The chaos and the conflict. after couple of years now i have written lots of poetic pieces which the sublime theme is love. another realization dawned on me recently that all my poems are ‘Narrations of silence’ even this realization is because of a literary magazine i tried to submit and the topic was “when the world goes silent, does it ever? or is that your heart that went numb?” and then I started to go through my poems and found that every damn piece in them was a narration of a dreadful silence I had inside me and those words are not different from wailing loud ij silence. i was devastated with that realization and self-pity started to engulf me entirely for days. yet, I know that poetry doesn’t cure grief but it understands.
i am not even sure am I going to send this to you, but writing it surely bringing me to tears ( almost ). In the course of time I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared even at the risk of having it bruised and misunderstood. On this wooden bench in a street of mussoorie. i sat all this evening without uttering a single word, not even an inaudileb sigh. this deep melancholy is barely letting me think straight. i may have opened my gallery and swiped aall the photos I have of you , even opened caller and seen your contact and closed it. the same with insrageam and whatsapp too. all this melancholic experience is making me to experience of a loss of desire itself.
temperatures at this late evening in these hilly streets are beginning to give me chills. I am still on the same bench, with the same view in front of me. sky turns from oranges to lilacs to indigo. Maybe it’s all blue, a mysterious hue, of illness and nobility, the rarest color in nature. It is the color of the ambiguous depth of the heavens and of the abyss at once. Blue is the color of the shadow side, the tint of marvelous and inexplicable [ and ] of desire. my blurry eyes hold none of those colors. I am waiting for snow, it’s not peak winter yet. but still, when did I hold back myself from expecting a beautiful yet impossible thing to happen only for me? Never. I’m still in summer, I’m stuck in those moments of sunlight falling across your face through those large windows of a summer evening, but this autumn came rushing through, days decreased and autumn grew, autumn in everything. There is an ache in my heart for the imagined beauty of life I haven’t had, from which I had been locked out, and it never goes away. There was one summer returning over and over there was one dawn I grew old watching.
And the night arrives
In silence with
Moon white and Starfire,
And by the night
And its beauty
The hills and villages
Are haunted. This
Autumn moonlight is
Deepening the emptiness
Of a country road.
“who goes to the hills, goes to his mother,”
wrote Kipling in one of his more sublime moments
if that’s true, I am at peace.
“in the matters of the love
there’s a lover and a beloved.
the lover lives with passion,
with full commitment and romanticism
the beloved is limited to being idolized.
I’m not saying being a lover is bad
but you have to know what happens
you suffer a lot, my dear.”
I have no sense of presence, naught of Now, these days. It’s everything about reminiscence of past or waiting for the future to happen, maybe not even waiting. Just surviving today. So that I can be in tomorrow. For what? For the sake of having another regular day.
In every love there will be a time, barely a few minutes few flashes of light on your face through the thoughts of getting an escape; opens a door. if you have seen it yet still stayed in love, there will not be another chance to get out of it. But you gathered enough courage and got up on your feet and crossed that damn door and you will get into the world again. Not any more foggy visions, not any more sense of belongingness. Your thoughts are for your, freedom.
Today I took that door and got myself out and she’s not there in the world I stepped into. It’s a beautiful reality again. No need for hope, no need for patience. Free like a breeze… Suffocation is a yesterday’s experience.
Comments