to receive the love, or to not
to receive the trust, or to not
to get anything you yearned for, or to not-
you can not rebel;
life accepts the strivers and not the rebels
to receive the love, or to not
each bit around me is so naturally extreme,
in its deepest colours,
in saturated details that poke my eyes,
the sunsets so dense,
and the situations so dark,
and everything, eventually isn’t falling in place,
are these all a mere deceptive, hue storm?
It is a chilly Friday evening and he just returned home from work.
It calls for a steaming hot chai, to clear out the day’s stress, to celebrate the surpassing of city traffic and to sit by the window sill with the day’s newspaper, relishing the chai. His wife aces the Darjeeling tea recipe, he believes. A hint of elaichi and ginger in right proportion has sorted out the tea recipe on most days. He is like us, waiting for the evening tea to relax his senses. The fresh Darjeeling tea is being drained and the bliss slides in slowly.
It is all in the little things, you see.
We all have one of those days when everything seems unfinished. We are unsure about the chapter on the next blank page, about the pending chores that we left for an apparent tomorrow, about the next moment where we were supposed to begin with a pre-planned activity. This immature mess builds up steadily in the mind’s landfill and becomes a sheer garbage before you realise years have passed!
…..With a chill timid breeze beating up gently, I stand behind my tea stained ebony railing, facing hundreds of willow trees. It is a fresh two day getaway before I join my allied mess. All I’m sure about at this point is the imagination running through the wilderness of my mind, that moment. My mind’s wafting wilderness itches the strangeness of the evening. Far away, I can see two dragonflies chilling by the ivy arched window pane. One goes to the other and showers all the love it has. Your golden laced wings are beautiful, it says. The vines running along my ebony railing goes and ends above that rose cottage. The tender pink roses have bloomed and merged onto the corner of roof. They had a tough misty morning. They just dried themselves out from the drenching dew and a tiring work session. Don’t even get me started about the sunflowers standing near the silver door. Their fashion parade in the noon to attract the bee swarm was such a drama- I have lesser drama in my life.
My coffee arrives as I start looking into the crisp green grass. I look back into the willows and everything strikes back, but in bits. I get the clarity of my mess as I sip and stare into the chamomiles amid the crisp greens. The whites gave me confidence to sail through the plume of unorganised thoughts.
My perfumed skin felt numb against all that I was trying to push inside me; fragility was a reason. In the bizarre evening, I try to tune the mess to art, little by little. I try to mouth emptiness into beauty, make music in the ash grey heaven. I also try to understand you like how the paper supple roses mend itself, get you.
It is just another day where I figured out that this is the reason why nature never goes outdated. It mends you. It mends you like no other, from within.
you have heard many stories
of pines and cedars
a scene of loss,
my fingertips tremble
and freeze as i touch
the rose gold fountain pen
i blink twice
my smoky lids as i
on the papers;
so unfamiliar with my language, sheets
quiver as I stride my nails on
letters and words search for fervour
as i even think of him
on a paper
under fading pink skies
amid the pines
in a word, letter
for you and me
he is new
and gone, long gone