There was so much noise, clamor, laughters, talks, chitchats, words, words and so many words
and suddenly amid them, I was missing my silence. There's a very fine line that differentiates perpetual happiness from momentary joy. And peace ought to be something totally different. Not that I can not write about it or have not experienced it ever, but I know there're depths still untouched.
I don’t want to forget small moments of beauty. They’re hard to come by and often need to be forced into existence. So when they occur of their own accord, I want to grab on and cling like only a hungry child can understand.
Like last night, when I was sitting in the balcony, backlit by the red bulb, and saw my silhouette—bent over, I felt as if something was missing in that picture perfect. Missed strings, missed the music they produce and then smiled realizing how drastically I've changed over the years. I wasn't restless. was at peace knowing that music will come to me someday. for sure.
Like a few days ago in the hometown, when parked behind a bus at a red light, I was astounded at the monotony of the shirts of the five men who sat huddled together in the last row of the bus, their sweaty backs plastered against its glass, all swathed in some variation of mud-coloured checks. And just beyond that vehicle of eerily similar human beings (travelling to work as they have probably down every single day of their adult lives, at the exact time, down to the minute, by that very bus, and as they will probably do for the rest of their lives till the day before the day they drop dead) a lonely eagle soaring in the air, dressed in plumes so gay and many… and just to trivialise it… an airplane, ant-sized, flying thousands of feet above that eagle, probably carrying another cargo of eerily similar human beings… but I hope they’re in polka dots or wild stripes or even tartan will do… anything but those checks.
Like one night in September, when trudging back to the home after the nth shopping trip with parents, I looked up for a moment (for no reason, just instinct, like I felt an angel sitting on a star was staring at me) and saw a bird of the purest white, glide noiselessly across the dark sky like a shadow in reverse.
How many moments of true beauty just pass over our heads like that bird, unnoticed, irreplaceable...?
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I'm waiting for the rain, the drops, the stories they tell and the stories they hide, the rhythm they create and how they make me miss guitar and coffee. Let Him talk, let Him take His time and talk.. waiting...
and suddenly amid them, I was missing my silence. There's a very fine line that differentiates perpetual happiness from momentary joy. And peace ought to be something totally different. Not that I can not write about it or have not experienced it ever, but I know there're depths still untouched.
I don’t want to forget small moments of beauty. They’re hard to come by and often need to be forced into existence. So when they occur of their own accord, I want to grab on and cling like only a hungry child can understand.
Like last night, when I was sitting in the balcony, backlit by the red bulb, and saw my silhouette—bent over, I felt as if something was missing in that picture perfect. Missed strings, missed the music they produce and then smiled realizing how drastically I've changed over the years. I wasn't restless. was at peace knowing that music will come to me someday. for sure.
Like a few days ago in the hometown, when parked behind a bus at a red light, I was astounded at the monotony of the shirts of the five men who sat huddled together in the last row of the bus, their sweaty backs plastered against its glass, all swathed in some variation of mud-coloured checks. And just beyond that vehicle of eerily similar human beings (travelling to work as they have probably down every single day of their adult lives, at the exact time, down to the minute, by that very bus, and as they will probably do for the rest of their lives till the day before the day they drop dead) a lonely eagle soaring in the air, dressed in plumes so gay and many… and just to trivialise it… an airplane, ant-sized, flying thousands of feet above that eagle, probably carrying another cargo of eerily similar human beings… but I hope they’re in polka dots or wild stripes or even tartan will do… anything but those checks.
Like one night in September, when trudging back to the home after the nth shopping trip with parents, I looked up for a moment (for no reason, just instinct, like I felt an angel sitting on a star was staring at me) and saw a bird of the purest white, glide noiselessly across the dark sky like a shadow in reverse.
How many moments of true beauty just pass over our heads like that bird, unnoticed, irreplaceable...?
----------------------------------------------
I'm waiting for the rain, the drops, the stories they tell and the stories they hide, the rhythm they create and how they make me miss guitar and coffee. Let Him talk, let Him take His time and talk.. waiting...
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