The light in the room was dim before he entered and drew the curtains. The weather outside seemed pleasant.
He sat adjacent to me, picked up his diary lying on the table, and pulled out the pen tucked in my hair bun. The curtains were blowing by the wind outside. Clouds were moving, some near to each other, some far away.
I closed the book I was holding, and looked at his thoughts wandering around the corners of a page. A few raindrops fell on the window pane, to gently meander.
The rain had started to pour down few seconds later. Raindrops fell on the muddy ground, on leaves of the plant kept near the window, and a few tiny drops fell on the page of his diary.
My eyes could no longer trace raindrops falling on the window pane. They fell on the surface and got merged. While a few on the leaves got pinned, the rest glided themselves down.
The sound of quiet was broken by his “damn.” The raindrops that fell on the page were slowly merging into the warmth of his words.
Abandoning ourselves or someone who matters to us isn’t the solution when we encounter a situation where we detest a certain kind of behavior or a habit that betters no one. Trying to make efforts in discarding a habit, a behavior or anything that you know isn’t doing any good, and can be dealt with is the best way possible, instead of distancing yourself from someone or trading yourself off with dullness and happiness.
You go from one place to another to free yourself from wearisome schedules and reasons to not hear the calling , stepping out from the confinements, which exist only until you realize that there weren’t any. Breaking the walls stifled by the fumes of burning clocks and deafening tick-tick of the time, you stuff your bag with hopes of finding a part of you in a place that awaits you and leaving behind another as a souvenir, when you only know it like a tune you heard from a distance.
The sun, even though of the same sky looks different, and so does everything else. The usual becomes unusual. A gentle stroke of the wind takes away the heaviness you had carried for long. A step on the soil turns into a memory in the heart. Unspoken words write themselves down on the smile on your face. A song at the shore, a little dance on the side of the road.
The place makes you feel more like a friend than a friend who always pretend to know you. And one day you, that place becomes an experience you waited long to live.
A journey turned into an adventure.
Never having an idea about how much of a place you will carry with yourself, you get ready to rove around another. Nostalgia for that place follows you wherever you go, and you relent in the intricate loneliness while remembering every bit of the life you lived then and there; the kind of loneliness one feels being among the people who know you as much as a man assert to know God.
While you continue to whirl in the eddy of memories, the same place embraces another wanderer in its warmth.
Sometimes I wonder what if I have walked the road everyone thought was the only way to reach a place that seemed almost same in everyone’s eyes and gave almost the same perspective. Would life have been less difficult?Would I have been less troubled? Would the journey have been easy?
Sometimes I wonder what if I have chosen the conventional way to live a life, feeling alive despite being reticent about everything around. Would there have been someone to walk with, someone who could imbue the emptiness on the street…someone who could fill the silence between the imaginary walls? Would I have taken another turn in anticipation?
I don’t know where the road that I chose will lead me to. Will it be the mountains that I ever wanted to touch, or an ocean I always wanted to swim in, or nowhere. But I’m sure that the road I didn’t choose would have taken me to an insipid place, where they all go, losing themselves through a vile journey, and I’m sure that’s not where I ever wanted to be and ever want to be.
The days are still long and the nights still are immeasurable, but memories of you, the thought of you, your brown eyes, your big nose, your hands, all now lies on the horizon. There is no fear if they cross, or if they stay there. Slowly and slowly, the line would fade.
The ocean is dark and deep as it always was, but I have learned to swim. I no longer fear of getting drowned in you, by you. The tides roar high and search for me, but my feet have befriended sand, clasping it tight. I no longer fear of getting devoured by the eerie sound of the tides. The screams from the torrent of your ruthless love do not shut, but the calmness of letting you go is not perturbed. I no longer fear getting swallowed. Slowly and slowly, the ocean would dry.
Your sun has set, and the summer of love has faded away into the cold mist. The moonlight has disowned your shadow, and the stars don’t look for you, yet somehow your face is reflected when they twinkle. Slowly and slowly, the cold mist would cloud the stars.
The day you named my prayer a curse for you, I puked out all the love for you over the memories we shared. However, I doubt myself if I puked it all, while I write this, thinking about you. But I know that, I will spill them out, slowly and slowly, poem by poem, word by word, smoothly emptying my body, and making space for another love, the one I always deserved, the one worthy to have and worthy to keep.
My life always has been perplexing; perhaps, a jigsaw puzzle, and I am trying to put different pieces into right places, sometimes to give it some sense, and sometimes to see what it turns out to be. However, putting a piece in its right place isn’t as easy as everybody around me told. There were nights when I struggled to give my fatigued eyes some rest, because my thoughts refused to sleep. However, a night of absolute persuasiveness came by, and I could let the bleak thoughts slip away in the pure silence of the night. I realized that the pieces of my puzzle are not at one place, that they never were, but they are always around me.
I continued to move my pen over the plain white sheet, and did not regret if a line bended between or the ink clogged. For some reason, I always believe that I’ll make something out of it, and that a mistake might lead to a much beautiful piece of art that couldn’t have been possible without unintentional clogs or bends.
I finished my piece without doubting my ideas and capabilities only to realize that I will only be able to pick the pieces of puzzle if I keep walking, as far as I can, as long as I can, and if I happen to pick wrong pieces, not once but many times, I should not worry and keep moving. Instead of thinking about the wrong pieces that I mistakenly took hold of, and that I failed at finding the right ones, I must look at the puzzle with careful fore-thoughtful planning.
The next morning I showed my art work to a friend who fairly appreciated, unknown of the hidden imprints of clogs and bends under the artistic lines. That’s how life is.
There will be a night when you would feel worthless, and you would think that there is no meaning to your life anymore. Your body would shudder and your lips would quiver in fear of being alive. You would think how will you survive another day? You would think maybe tomorrow will be worse than today, and you will again regret for not ending it the first time the thought came to your mind, that had coagulated all your hopes and potential.
And then with your trembling hands, you would open the drawer of your study and take out the paper-cutter or the scissor to stop everything at once; every pain, every disappointment, every reason, every hope and all your fears. You would place it on your wrist, and you would stare at the veins travelling from your wrist to your heart. You would think how delicate life is, and how God exposed the veins to heart while designing the body, letting us see the roots and veiling its branches with the skin.
At first you would cut if softly, because it isn’t easy, and nothing would happen. You would give it a second try thinking it is hard and painful, but it isn’t impossible and that you have to do it, for your life has become a mess. While placing the cutter on your wrist, you would pause for a moment and ask yourself; if you can give this a second chance, why you cannot give it to yourself?
Hello, everyone. I am starting with a series- Late Night Thoughts; relating to thoughts that our mind speaks in the silence of the night.