Over the tip topping of the raindrops and the sloshing of the mud accumulated in the park overseeing my balcony, where little brats where cackling away in laughter, I could hear the jingling of her anklets as she came closer to me. Her fragrance sent fireworks through the closed lids of my eyes and I could hear her voice even before she said something.
Day and night were the same for me. The only demarcation in my life was defined by her. My day was when she was close to me and my night when , I , far from her.
The cool breeze struck me on my face and she played with my hair, caressing it gently, as if to make sure that each strand of hair got an equal share of her love. Sometimes it was the breeze, sometimes it was her and sometimes just a haunting presence of them both.
Her fingers felt as light and smooth as the wisp of air that once played hide and seek in the comfort of my locks. Her breath was warm but her hands were cold. I was colder still and so, it was okay.
The rain was now over, for I could hear the birds in flight, running back to their homes in far away places. The air also felt heavy, laden with moisture and I could feel the piercing prick of the mosquito just below my ear, where I used to be kissed by my mother as she bid me to school.
They measure light, but not darkness. They measure sound, but not silence. They measure life, but not death. They measure presence, not absence.They measure joy, but not grief. Do you know why ?
Do you know the different degrees of silence ? The one that screams at you and the one that shreds you to pieces with its force ? Yet, there is none like the silence that lets you hear you - because that is something you never want to. We can't measure silence. Silence measures us.
Back into my room. Day or night ? I care not. I slip my pills and go to sleep - my dreamless abode. I remember asking my mother once - "What is it like to dream, mother ?" I don't remember her reply. Maybe she did not know too.
She looked over him as he went off to sleep. A long struggle he had had with his life. It would end today. She was at once relieved as well as sad. Relieved because it pained her to see him suffer and sad because he was always full of praise for everything around him.
"Although he could not see like us, he could see the beauty of things around him much more distantly than any of us", said the nurse, with tears brimming yet contained, as his coffin was lowered. It drizzled again, as if to say goodbye as the tears rolled off her cheek and fell to the ground where he now lay, forever.
Day and night were the same for me. The only demarcation in my life was defined by her. My day was when she was close to me and my night when , I , far from her.
The cool breeze struck me on my face and she played with my hair, caressing it gently, as if to make sure that each strand of hair got an equal share of her love. Sometimes it was the breeze, sometimes it was her and sometimes just a haunting presence of them both.
Her fingers felt as light and smooth as the wisp of air that once played hide and seek in the comfort of my locks. Her breath was warm but her hands were cold. I was colder still and so, it was okay.
The rain was now over, for I could hear the birds in flight, running back to their homes in far away places. The air also felt heavy, laden with moisture and I could feel the piercing prick of the mosquito just below my ear, where I used to be kissed by my mother as she bid me to school.
They measure light, but not darkness. They measure sound, but not silence. They measure life, but not death. They measure presence, not absence.They measure joy, but not grief. Do you know why ?
Do you know the different degrees of silence ? The one that screams at you and the one that shreds you to pieces with its force ? Yet, there is none like the silence that lets you hear you - because that is something you never want to. We can't measure silence. Silence measures us.
Back into my room. Day or night ? I care not. I slip my pills and go to sleep - my dreamless abode. I remember asking my mother once - "What is it like to dream, mother ?" I don't remember her reply. Maybe she did not know too.
She looked over him as he went off to sleep. A long struggle he had had with his life. It would end today. She was at once relieved as well as sad. Relieved because it pained her to see him suffer and sad because he was always full of praise for everything around him.
"Although he could not see like us, he could see the beauty of things around him much more distantly than any of us", said the nurse, with tears brimming yet contained, as his coffin was lowered. It drizzled again, as if to say goodbye as the tears rolled off her cheek and fell to the ground where he now lay, forever.
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| 'Scream' by Munch |
