That kind of month..
Ayon Banerjee
APAC P&L leader. Bestselling Author. Board Member. Podcaster. Fortune 50 Executive.B2B specialist. Teambuilder. Change & Turnaround agent ( All Views Personal)
On some days, you make a list of things you want to remember about it. On other days, you make?a list of things you need to forget about it. The problem happens , when on most days,?the lists turn out identical. It’s leaving behind parts of itself?everywhere. Like an absent minded soul leaves behind?keys and umbrellas. At intermediate stopovers, at insignificant detours. On her way home.
Driving into your parking lot at the end of a long day, you switch off the ignition and gently place your forehead on the steering wheel. There is something vaguely disturbing about discovering the richness of the evening silence inside the confines of your private space. Why is it different from the other poorer silence that piles up over the night and which is always in a hurry to disintegrate at dawn ?Decoding the economics of silences between you and yourself, you wonder if a certain silence is getting louder with time. Is it your imagination or is it indeed that this summer’s silence is noisier than last year’s. Something seems to be slipping away and dropping off .
So you keep sitting. And try to silence the silence with a name . To snare it in language & stow it away inside a faraway corner of your heart where you hide your guilts & regrets.
??That kind of silence
So much of what we'll carry, lurks in silences.
The almanacs of ache, the tight-lipped angst
at unaddressed prayers, dried petals in fading
diaries, and half-remembered notes of music.
As the poet said, what we conceal is so often
more prolific than what we?can ever confide.
Like a repository of lost language, stowed
carefully away in an old poem, we rise and
fall like a litany of a passing rain, drowning
a list of minutes we so feverishly conspired
to memorize, bury. Lest they show up again.
Ours is?ritual of unbelonging, an ode to
unbelief, a secret sorcery of absences that
lives on. Like an ember in leftover ashes.
After the final word of the last prayer has
been uttered. And denied. And?the final
rumor about the death of Gods, spoken.
Like an allegory that lost half it’s storyline.
In lapses of irresponsible calendars in lopsided
blue years . This month is absolute in its abstraction.
Like an inheritance jinxed, never to be?claimed.
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(From my blog – Farewell April 2022)