We are the mashup of all the things we let into our life.

We are the mashup of all the things we let into our life.
The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more ---William Wordsworth

Saturday, 2 April 2016

The Fugue of restlessness


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.
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