At the end of the day, like the aftertaste of a bittersweet memory, a thought continues to linger on, humming infinitely in rhythm to our desires, floating like the wisps of a cloud left behind. It beats with a severity strong enough to claw out our own skin and mild enough to let sleep find its way back after the strenuous journey.
It rises like a soft whisper from somewhere within the hollows of our subconscious and saunters its way up when the eyes finally find their pilgrimage in the dark to haunt the last shreds of peace that the heart conjured meekly and to char our dreams with a benevolent promise.
A fragile mind, beleaguered by the monotonous charades ends up cribbing and cringing as his love for travel doesn’t pan out according to his whim but aren’t we all travelling? From one phase to another, from one emotion to a new one, living life one heartbeat at a time, unbeknownst to the adventures of future?
We travel in time, in experience and in age. Leaving parts of our soul in people and places like little souvenirs of our presence. We capture their essence and arrive back at a different phase, exhausted due to the culmination of one journey and slightly ecstatic at the beginning of another.
Somedays the seraphic morning light reminds me of butterflies and daisies, frolicking around with each other in open fields of sublime beauty, untarnished from the spoils of human greed and somedays even the thought of removing the covers from my face to let that light brush against the skin, to let it quash out the gray clouds seems revolting. Somedays humanity seems to fill me up with hope for the future; maybe Armageddon is just another big religious conspiracy of the church to ensure that fear never abandons the mind of common folk; everything is seizable, those far fetched fantasies that don’t let you sleep at night seem just a dream away and somedays even breathing becomes hard, you grasp on memories to keep you afloat and all that you find is regret.
Life dances in front of your eyes, playing hide and seek and sometimes you are too exhausted to blur out the line between dreams and reality, just so as to carve out a niche where the gray doesn’t persevere. The dreams become the reality and the world fades away in the background as you quietly slip into another fantasy.
When you’re struck with tragedy, what is the first thought that resurrects itself firmly in your head? The thought that pushes itself up from the numbness of shock, the one that reverberates inside on an infinte loop? It is of death, your newfound lust for death. Suddenly all sense of reality leaves your body and whats left inside is a silent tale of crippling sorrow. The tragedy runs in your blood now; life fleeting in tiny drops of grief, flowing out facilely because the sunsets have lost their charm and the stars are just inept stones of light. Your spirit has died and the haven of bliss is slowly slipping like grains of sand. Everything you once held sacred seems futile and all love empty; life has faintly donned the hideous white robe of death, barring your soul of colours and joy. But the irony is, even in loss, when you readily accept death, you keep on living because that is the most logical thing to do, accept the circumstances and move on, even with a heart that has been ripped into shreds. You move on and you keep on living, sometimes searching and sometimes hunting desperately for a laconic peace of mind that you lost when the moon still shined bright. Life goes on and so does tragedy. You never forget it, you never leave it behind, you just let it slip from your mind, even if momentarily and find your harmony.
I stopped to look at the calendar before grabbing my stuff and heading out. 30 June’17, the last day of June. June has always been my happy month; my month of life. June symbolises warmth and love and gifts and long drives and birthday lunches. This is the month of laughter, of sunlit fields brimming with flowers, of strawberries and impromptu trips to the snowy hills. Lately, everything has been changing over like the new colors of bud after spring. June has lost its charm and life has lost its meaning. I’m leaving my city, my home, my ownself. I’m leaving my June behind.