Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Solitude

You can never fathom how it’ll call for you, play with you gently, take you in it’s arms, engulf you in it’s comfort until you can’t find your way through those lanes you had once walked so willingly.
The consequences are painful, a persisting sickness that refuses to leave you.
Laughter sounds stale, and memories are never enough to fill that half empty glass. Once you found solace in crowds with the noise and shouts and barks but now the crowds have alienated you, made you the enemy, pushed you away. The evening sky mocks you. The bleak rain fails to wash away your despair.
The streetlights are too bright, voices too loud. You grope your way through the smoky haze that has settled on you so snug, so comfortable. There’s a desperate urge to shrug off this sickness that clings to you, but the last reserves of willpower have seeped away.
There’s a parade ahead, some heightened celebration…is it the festivities? You memory fails you. But the crowd is coming again. You can almost make out the smiles on their faces, the brightness in blinding. And then you hear them. The music of contentment. It’s like an old scar that won’t heal, the flow of blood you cannot stem, an overwhelming pain that stabs you over and over again. There is something flickering inside which screams for release, a gaping hole that aches for fulfillment.
But you were always the weak one.
Oh how can you brave this crowd again?

I am standing beside you. You have denied me so often, daunted by the path I offer, hesitant, faltering. The “sickness” you called me. A blanket you thought you could lift and throw away. Yet you clung to me. I worked my magic, took you in my arms, lulled you to sleep.
And so here I am. Again. So close to you. You can feel my breath on your skin. This time you don’t recoil at my touch. The crowd is nearing. I take your hand in mine. We walk ahead. Oblivious to the jeers and cries. You and I.

2 comments:

Rajyashree Sen said...

You write amazingly. It just seems like reading a thought, and not a page. And that's what I regard true writing.

Minko said...

it's "the" feeling, you know!You write like a scathing knife and at the same time there is a certain flowery aura in these words!:)