after the piano rondevu
Night falls, the
glow of the evening
lamp; sitting on the
couch, it's the perfect time
to write poetry,
create music.
_________________________________
Too close, too many,
so close that you can be touched,
so close that they touch you,
and you shrink, you shrink,
shiver, contract, and then,
all of a sudden, you vanish
like a note of music
you become a part of those vibrations
You become music.
____________________________________
There are times when several things, ideas, thoughts come rushing to you, all of a sudden, at the same time, you remember all your dreams, together, and you want to hold on to them, each one of them, tightly, so that none, not even one of them can slip away, freeing themselves from the clutches, and fly out from the corners of the fluttering mind.
___________________________________
Sometimes I miss certain things, inane, trivial things:
I miss living on the top floor of a very high building, with the rest of the existence beneath me, watching the sky as if it came to greet me first. I miss music, the feeling that comes on serene nights when you hold your guitar and just play whatever comes to your mind. And then I miss standing by my window, looking out at the stars on a clear night, with the cold wind sweeping across my face and chilling my nostrils with the fresh scent of the season. So many evenings did I spend watching dusk fall, and in those moments I belonged elsewhere, disembodied, and with no identity. I was a spirit, and merely that. I miss the long empty roads and walking endlessly on them. I miss the soft glow of lamps, a light that is not naked or harsh , a light that through its shade imbues you with warmth and calms your soul. I miss space, physical space that was mine and housed all my material possessions, mental space that distanced me from everything else around and left me bursting with notes of music, my poetry, ideas, feelings, words. Above all, I miss silence, I miss nights spent in awe.
They say stars keep a record of our history. They say we can track our journeys through them.
I look at them, wonder,question them, seek answers, smile, get lost in the zigzag paths they trail.
To music
through them
a letter, a note, a wish, a prayer..
It has been so long. You stretched it too longer. And now, you’ve to listen no matter what. Before I carry on, let me rest my soul for a moment. (how I wish that moment to stretch into an eternity) and let me play a serenade on my guitar. No, not lost, but I feel I’m so tired of this wait. I traveled across zillions of light-years and witnessed all phases of the moon ostensibly millions of times before I could gather this fistful of faith that someday you'll come to me, someday I'll create you. someday you'll flow endlessly.. in form of notes.. whispers... croonings.. wishes.. prayers.. silence.. rhythm.. surrendered to music, surrendered once again.
.
glow of the evening
lamp; sitting on the
couch, it's the perfect time
to write poetry,
create music.
_________________________________
Too close, too many,
so close that you can be touched,
so close that they touch you,
and you shrink, you shrink,
shiver, contract, and then,
all of a sudden, you vanish
like a note of music
you become a part of those vibrations
You become music.
____________________________________
There are times when several things, ideas, thoughts come rushing to you, all of a sudden, at the same time, you remember all your dreams, together, and you want to hold on to them, each one of them, tightly, so that none, not even one of them can slip away, freeing themselves from the clutches, and fly out from the corners of the fluttering mind.
___________________________________
Sometimes I miss certain things, inane, trivial things:
I miss living on the top floor of a very high building, with the rest of the existence beneath me, watching the sky as if it came to greet me first. I miss music, the feeling that comes on serene nights when you hold your guitar and just play whatever comes to your mind. And then I miss standing by my window, looking out at the stars on a clear night, with the cold wind sweeping across my face and chilling my nostrils with the fresh scent of the season. So many evenings did I spend watching dusk fall, and in those moments I belonged elsewhere, disembodied, and with no identity. I was a spirit, and merely that. I miss the long empty roads and walking endlessly on them. I miss the soft glow of lamps, a light that is not naked or harsh , a light that through its shade imbues you with warmth and calms your soul. I miss space, physical space that was mine and housed all my material possessions, mental space that distanced me from everything else around and left me bursting with notes of music, my poetry, ideas, feelings, words. Above all, I miss silence, I miss nights spent in awe.
They say stars keep a record of our history. They say we can track our journeys through them.
I look at them, wonder,question them, seek answers, smile, get lost in the zigzag paths they trail.
To music
through them
a letter, a note, a wish, a prayer..
It has been so long. You stretched it too longer. And now, you’ve to listen no matter what. Before I carry on, let me rest my soul for a moment. (how I wish that moment to stretch into an eternity) and let me play a serenade on my guitar. No, not lost, but I feel I’m so tired of this wait. I traveled across zillions of light-years and witnessed all phases of the moon ostensibly millions of times before I could gather this fistful of faith that someday you'll come to me, someday I'll create you. someday you'll flow endlessly.. in form of notes.. whispers... croonings.. wishes.. prayers.. silence.. rhythm.. surrendered to music, surrendered once again.
.
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