Winter moonlight

Somewhere amidst this insipid aridity, trying to bridge the bottomless waterway that would otherwise in time consume her soul, to more than merely stay afloat, the pursuit of such strength to get across, to cherish the idle solitude where the faint shadow of the rainbow arrayed a glimmer of hope, the serene surrounds brought to her a new apprehension of reality.

Battling with her mind and heart and the reluctant knowledge of the existence of no other viable justification and after much groping and scrabbling in the dark, around the dead end of this much acquainted cul-de-sac, which unfrequented by most, she realized the walk back would be in absolute solitary loneness while trying to get back on with the hustle and bustle, in track with them many strangers - a much vapid option.

Each step brought back to her little moments, incoherent in the harmony of order, but quaint and quintessential like the many bric-a-brac that grace the aristocratic baroque. To admire and revel in each one of them and with unshed tears, now flowing with much undesirable spontaneity to favour her tremulous turmoil and slowly but hesitantly, for the will to let go had let gone, pushing them away, and each resonating step resounding in a million echoes of the past telling a story of the future that would not be, caused emotions that were quicksanding her. Lost to her was all the resolve with which she naively believed to make the insurmountable preposterity possible.

Confined with herself, with the incarcerated ennui, there she sits, beneath the willow as she weeps gingerly, and each tear glistens, with a shimmer of grey, by the shine of the winter moonlight. 

Eternelle evanescence

Through acrid days and arbid nights, thoughts of you fail to dissolve, fail to fade. What is it that you have been, are or done that maketh you one but indispensable? I writhe, I wallow, I cringe. Had you been a little less, my task, my burden would be much lighter. Or may be that you aren’t is the reason why it all did start.

Is it too much that I ask for? Too hard to give?

Wandering through an arbour too good to be, one today I cannot reach for the way is winded, the way is long and I am by far wholly and unconditionally lost and all I can is try be but strong.

The song of your being brings a tear to my eye and as each note transcends, and it traces its way down a mite, I struggle to evade thoughts that refuse to wane.

What we were and what we are today, like spring to autumn, so stark a change, that with angst I hope, all but in vain, for it to be a dream not meant to be.

It fails me to comprehend where all of this may lead, but this one thing I can assure – for you, there, I will always be. 

Chagrin de l’amour

The ravaging upsurge of the tide rose high and the pleasant tone of the breeze turned many a tune sharper. Dusk was setting in and it seemed like nature was casting her the signal to leave the abode of lighthearted insouciance she seemed to be engulfed in. Yet there she stood, calm and unfazed, oblivious to the world around her. Her stature clearly masked the feelings of her tormented soul. Life had dealt out the worst hand of cards and she didn't really play them well. Incomprehensive as to why it had to be her and no other, succumbing most often to these thoughts that dragged her to a complete state of nihilism, for hitherto was no such precedent. Portraying amazing sangfroid without but cringing and crumbling within. Was there a tip-off, a cue she was missing? If so, why would the communiqué of negative tidings need be sent with the intention of pulling at her hearts strings? Why fiddle with certain ingenuous pleasures of life? Was she not human after all? 

She was not bitter or querulous or disgruntled but only highly disconcerted. Every iota of ardour and altruistic affability dissolved from her effusive being as those thoughts got the better of her. Expression failed her and contemplation and inexpressible silence were her only soul mates from whom she sought solitude.

It was quite unlike her usual restricting and cautious self to let her guard down to someone who could well be termed a perfect stranger. And yet, she did. Why? I guess she followed her heart’s presentiment. He seemed the perfect man - genteel and kind with a weirdly interesting sense of humour and astonishingly attractive. Any girl in her right senses would have given him a second look with awe. So did she. Circumstances brought them together and a mere quaint acquaintance turned to a dear friendship which seemed to progress to a certain higher degree. Or did it? They did grow very close and she considered him the very equivalent of her own flesh and bone. It didn't seem that there were feelings to the contrary from his manner either. Well, one thing to learn - don't ever take such things for granted!

Only an ambiguous passage of time upon which a confrontation was struck led to the stark truth being realized. There really was nothing. Of course! How could she have been so blind and let her imagination run wild?!

The idiocy in his claims that not every action needed a positive ulterior motive and the dearth of sensitivity to the earnest confession, that required more than mere intrepid courage, she made were all too hard to take within the short span of time which fate willed it all to happen. It soon became the blame game. All the more easier to turn the tables and point fingers at the other accusatorily. We take such pains to earn the love of another, but it hardly takes a few seconds to lose it all and garner an absolutely opposite position in the others life. The hurt of the unfelt wounds would take time to heal. It wasn't just the hurt of being rejected but also that of embarrassment. Could she live with it?

It would be in her best interest to make herself able enough to come out of it as a stronger person. Questions ran through her head ceaselessly about herself. Was there something wrong with her? Had she done something wrong? Was there something lacking in her?

Nobody, and I mean not a soul, is worth any of this trouble. It is true. The natural human proclivity that drives one to another involuntarily steering him/her to do the right thing at the right time would very well pass off as a 'kind gesture'. As unnerving as this may be. It becomes meaningless when the truth is but realized. Emotions will, as it should, go on a roller coaster ride. Whether to feel angry or upset or self-pity or sorry for him. Greiving more would make her the weak hearted one. We have to face it. All cannot be lost. We should pick up the pieces. Move on.

A good friend once said, "Sometimes, some things just don't turn out the way we imagine. What we may dream to be perfect, fate may believe to be otherwise". If anything good has to happen, it will. Somewhere down the line. It really is a sheer waste of time looking out for it. It will not lead to a convergence mid-way. Right now, in all probability, it is just that the traffic is a little too heavy to handle. But its destination is set. You. And while it takes its time to reach you, there ain't no point in trying to settle for a package of lesser value than what is actually in store. No matter how much you convince yourself, that this is probably the perfect one, you would know within your heart of hearts, that it isn't. That zing and surge of energy and excitement, the spark and whatever else that goes with it will only be felt when it actually arrives. Till then. Patience. A true virtue.

The trampled rose must rise from the ashes like the phoenix and make her loss her lesson.

Beholden within the folds of tomorrow lies an intimately secret promise that, with its miraculously mystic hocus-pocus magic, would whip out the maelstrom of yesterday for a convalescent today and an unthinkably adventurous tomorrow filled with love.

(In dedication to the one person who taught me one of many important lessons in life – on the highway of love, you could be led onto a one way street out of which you must find a way to navigate for not everything falls in line with your  wants/needs/desires lest you be beguiled to wander along the same – a friend very dear, who has at times even been much in equivalent of a substitute dad. )