I awakened to a distant, pulsating sound that soon dwindled into silence. I listened rigid and heard nothing but the creep of blood in my ears and the occasional sigh of the wind around me. Gray and shadowy was the world. The weather and scene without seemed to mimic those of my feelings within - everything was draped in unrelieved shades of gray. Shrubs of Juniper and Cranberry, and pine varieties, were grayish black; those of the broad leaved sort, were grayish green; the crags and the eternal hills were grayish brown; the sky, dropping behind all, gray of the purest melancholy, curdled and the clouds arranged themselves into little clumps like strewn cotton wool.
And I drifted solitary through its vast mysteries.
Raucous and throaty cries, like those belonging to larks or linnets or finches, sounded harsh in my ears as I thus wandered like a zephyr; as if I was an intruder in their midst. A remote, palpable question of where I might be drifted and hovered in my mind. I found myself standing astonished on the edge of a precipice : a steep, dark and dreadful abyss whence great pulsing clouds of white steam rolled upwards.
I felt giddy yet excited; my emotions penetrated by something inexplicable and pregnant with uncertainty. I felt naked. I felt as though perhaps a wounded bird may feel into clear air knowing that a hawk wings above and that it will swoop and be gobbled up. As though perhaps Dante Alighieri might have felt when he found himself one day at a fateful doorway which he hesitated to enter.
What is this spirit in man that urges him to forever depart from happiness? This restlessness and indefatigable desire to toil and to place himself in danger?
It is merely because there is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him, who shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a plunge. To indulge for a moment, at any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost.
We perpetrate them merely because we feel that we should not.
It was this restlessness, this insecurity perhaps, that drove me further and further afield in my explorations.
It was maybe a while or so since I stopped hearing the various sounds accompanying me as I thus wandered, pensive and engrossed in my own whirl of thoughts. There were no warning cries from birds, no rustling of the leaves and no whistling of the wind; just the crunch of gravel under my shoes.
The silence was deafening.
It was then, that I began to feel the need of fellowship. I wanted to question, wanted to feel; wanted to relate my experience.
As the hush of the evening crept over the world, the sun touched the mountains and swiftly became a blazing hemisphere of liquid flame and sank.
Then, slowly and softly the myriad colors of the evening sky mingled into each other and enwrapping the world fold after fold into deepening blue, came the night. The icy chill of the night pierced my bones and entranced by the splendor of the sight, I sat down and mused.
In the sky, one bright star shone kindly and steadily like the face of an old friend.
At last, I realized the full temerity of my voyage as I began to feel the pull of the earth upon my being, drawing me back to my life.
I reclined upon the ground and gazed at the multitude of stars twinkling in the sky above, wondering at how many people like me would be out there searching for solace.
A cool breeze had started blowing from the west and the leaves resumed their rustling.
A smile danced on my lips and I whistled a half remembered tune, in the hope that this musical note would remain suspended in the air for someone else to be a companion for.
Dawn.
Deafening silence, yet somewhat relaxing. The city replete with yawns and sore eyes. Transient skies grimace at a scowling block of nimbus, heralding light rain and soon, tiny, little droplets of rain fall in boundless abandon from the skies. Startled birds flutter in their dark recesses; crows fidget in the trees and caw their alarms and then, as if calmed by a foraging conspirator, dwindle into silence.
Recursive, recoiling, redemptive thoughts tug at your synapses and when these mad, kaleidoscopic scramble of thoughts lapse into your disenchanted state of mind, you count the next sheep. Tossing and turning in your sleep you give out a sigh of resignation, and sit upright. Still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you are bound to the window panes, watching the tiny little drops of innocence leave a trail as they roll down the glass pane. A slight chill of monsoon creeps under your skin and wrapping yourself in a blanket, you lean closer to the window, engrossed deep in thought. Outside, an inexplicable heaviness weighs on the atmosphere; save for the rain relentlessly beating a solemn tattoo on the roof. Lull before the storm. Soon, a blur of black and blue umbrellas could be seen wading through the silence : the early risers. It is still quite dark now but the slowly rising sun sends brilliant streaks of light through the wisps of clouds to illuminate the pockets of early morning mist that had blanketed the streets.
Its majestic. You have a sudden urge to open the windows and you do : letting in an icy blast of cold wind that treads softly into your hair, whispering to you, invigorating your soul. And you feel a change. Not that aggressive slamming, whistling, hurtling of wind into your ears that assails you as you bow your head and torpedo through the gale. No. Just that calm, quiet, solemn wind that carries woes with it as it wanders; and you can hear them if you listen closely.
The wind that carries a tear streaked, unfinished letter from the lips of a sailor to his wife; or that which carries a stifled, unuttered cry from a woman as she stares hard into the distance, waiting for her husband to show up any moment.
Your face is wreathed in smiles and your eyes are closed, feeling the wind caressing your face and the rain pecking it. Its beautiful. Leaning close to the open window you take a deep breath of fresh air; taking it all in. The faint growling of the clouds; the cacophony of bird songs ; the rain tapping on the leaves; drumming on the roof; the shuffling of feet as people walk to work and the intoxicating smell of wet earth. All of these transport you to another dimension. Another world. Another time. Its fantastic.
You find yourself floating over wide expanse of green fields; over jagged mountains blanketed in snow; as a shepherd on the moors and craggy highlands; over streams and pristine lakes. Its marvelous, this feeling.
And yet...there is an inexplicable, stifling feeling that verges on reality; a parasite that lurks and lingers in the darkest corner of your heart. A marionette that holds the fibers of your heart as it beats.
And you call it Love.
The expression of calm repose that you had a moment ago is now changing into a troubled frown as the heart beats frantically in its cage. Its ghastly, this feeling.
Suddenly, your reverie is shattered into a million pieces and you are jolted back to reality by the clickety-clack and trot-trot of horses on the cobblestones as they pull the carriages; street hawkers and newspaper sellers as they yell their lungs out and the ruckus created by the morning life.
The rain had stopped long ago and its hot and humid now. The air is windless and tensed; mixed with the smell of human sweat and refuse and the cacophony of noises in the shape of an exclamation mark.
Exasperated, you slam the windows shut and sit back.
There is a sharp pang that touches the source of tears and soon, rivulets of tears roll down your cheeks and splash onto your hand which unclenches as a reflex; revealing a letter that had been crumpled a lot. It slides from the hand and falls on the floor with a loud thud. A thud that resounded within the four walls for a while.
Silence reigned supreme once again, save for the hiccups of sobs that erupted now and then.
Its horrid, this feeling.
