Time -?Very cautiously, you curve out of sight. I wait awhile for you to reappear. Then one day, I fall in love with the curve.
- Lost time has a queer intimacy. Like the shape of forgetfulness - Binding us in concentric circles, equidistantly stitched, from one end of nothing, to the other. Its absence gives our story a form. A relative dimension to its journey, and an algebraic hint of a destination. Like the silence of falling things, before they reach the floor. And the music of faraway rain, playing outside a closed window. It’s the cage that frees our flight.?And the space that holds its bar.
- There are certain spaces at unfinished corners of the heart. Spaces - that refuse be filled. And yet we keep returning. Waiting for an elusive knock. Crouching in some half done shadows Every now and then. Outside, the sleepless sky knits another night. Infinite stars, each conspiring to distort new destinies. Some nights you wish you could start again. ?Under a different, undiscovered sky - where there are no stars.
- One day eventually, we all drift and find sides of the night to keep. Sometimes, our quest is light, to seek our drifted sun. Sometimes, it is darkness, to bury your slipping shadows. One day, for all of us, the stars stop writing. And we sit & wonder then. Of lives. Where we shouldn’t have gone. And everything else goes on after that. Just as it was written.
- In our quest to be - We rise and?we grow, ?we stumble and?we stop. We sit on a ledge, at the edge of time, and let lost time catch up with us. Sometimes we lose our time - to the crease of darkness Sometimes we find it back?- In the boundaries of light.
- Have you also noticed - How swiftly?the effervescence of the pre-dawn sky shrugs off its mystery &?slides into light ? How effortlessly things that exist, exist only so that they can be lost. And suddenly become precious ?
- 6 AM on a Saturday is usually a time when it is either too late or too early do anything.?So you turn yourself in once more, and slip under the covers.?To ponder. About freedom , and what to do with your next thirty minutes. Sometimes it’s a good time to review your own sinusoidal life. It is only when we?review what we lost, that it qualifies as an adventure. Try this someday -?When it is 6 AM on a silent weekend morning, a time when it is either?too early or too late to do anything. And choose to reinvent yourself . Because,?in the land of?6 AM , one plus one shall always remain one. You’ll know, of course,?that during the course of the day, there will be moments more significant than these. But then, those 30 mins are yours…..
- And then, from an incomprehensible distance in the new-born blue sky above , will float in the?sound of the first?birds of dawn. As the poet would say - Like two lost children who had not come home for dinner, they'd be?singing by?themselves, calling out to each other in their own private conversation. Oblivious to the fact?that the world , nonchalant?in its otherness, would be gathering?voices out here, stealthily about to lay siege on their exclusivity.
- Time is like a season , that is always about to end. The air would smell of flowers, and the perfect weather would keep holding on. ?Gambling one day after day, cautiously surviving the forecast of an ugly hurricane on its way. And when it does leave, we say it’s only a matter of days. But an obstinate & ominous pause stays, as it slips out of sight. Like that poem where a door closes with solidity ,behind travelers with heavy bags, headed too far to travel light. And where the poet reminds us that?just like it is?with the weather, with its fury of thunder and snow, often unpredictable and unknown - Destinies too, always seem to have, minds & maps & rhymes of their own.
- Every generation has a year. That kind of year when life changes gears, when there is a promise in the air, when the grass is always green , when the music always makes sense and when the sky is always clear. It's a different story that two decades on, the music becomes 'period' & like them, starts?sounding silly, in retrospect. But that's fine. It is their silly. And their right to remember that they believed they would make something of the journey ahead, blissfully unaware that in the decades to follow,?destiny would be lurking in the shadows. But that's okay. Life takes its shots, they take theirs. One of them has to win after all. And as the saying goes - in the end, it’s life. And you just can't beat life.
- On generations, again - There comes a day in your life when you will discover your swagger. Then there comes another when you will lose it. You shall get approximately twenty years between these two days. Each day thereafter will see the replacement of your dreams with memories. And gradually, the replacement of those memories with other memories.
- The first time?you look back from intermission, you feel something of an inverse Deja Vu, ?if you get what I mean – As if the scene is going to play again & again in your mind in future. Deep into the future. Like fragments of a distant star that keep dazzling for a thousand years. Long after the star ceases to exist. Shedding the dreams of youth is like sitting with Dostoevsky on a rainy dawn. You sit attentively numb. Meanwhile,?insignificant realities keep accumulating in the background. Everyone has a secret personal page in history. Sometimes that history?seeks rebirth in a faraway future. A deep future. As deep as it can only exist when you’re nineteen, your bare toes ?buried in the cold sand of a summer night. And the furious ocean performing an exclusive symphony for you. (P.S. – Does summer come only once a year when you’re nineteen, or does it come more often ?)
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