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?

Sunday, August 28, 2016

Picture Postcard

The necklace road was just as well lit as any other day. Its park benches occupied by lovers of all hues. The lake was full of sail boats and the Buddha as usual, held on to his smile. I remember that the rain surprised all of us. It came in waves, slightly slanting, beating down relentlessly. I would have run into the car, had you not stopped me that day.

That evening, I walked in the rain with you. Hand in hand, you holding on tight so that I don't take a shelter to save my buckaroo leather, and I taking delight in watching you dancing in the rain. That was the first time I got wet in the rain...and did not mind it all that much.

Saturday, August 27, 2016

Moving On.

I open my door and almost see you sitting there, angry that you could not get the air-conditioning on. Is that small speck of red on my yellow tea cup a stain from your lipstick? I ride my car and I can see you sitting next to me, glaring at those jealous guys staring at you. There are six strands from your hair that I saved from the last time you were home. A green elastic band sits lonely in my bathroom shelf.

A bindi stares at me from my dressing room mirror.

So much of my memory is stained forever. I am no longer what I remember. All I remember is you.

Saturday, August 20, 2016

One Wave at a Time

I can hear your voice on the other side of the phone. Its like some lonesome wave spent from a long voyage crashing unto my shores. I love it when you crash into my world. I love the overwhelming sense of being drenched by you. I love the mysterious stories you tell me of magical lands. I love how you try to make it up for all the time we lost by speaking too fast, running out of breath.

I love the way you explore yourself around my loneliness from you. I love the faint sense of unease in your tone, as you try to find out if I am the same edges you rounded off from all these years of random onslaught.

I love the saltiness of my soul that you leave behind.