Scatters

You give it all away. Times pass, winds change, people alter their course. You chuck away the pieces of yourself here and there. Unfettered from any inhibitions, they bolt away. You don’t even remember what you’ve lost and what was snatched away from you. You can hardly fathom whether those fragments were complete in itself or were their cries waiting to be heard. So busy you were in your world of drama that you didn’t even look back at the scattered you. You were too occupied to bid farewell to your own varied selves. You probably don’t even remember how crucial some of those pieces were.

They said you were too naïve for the brutal world, so you threw your innocence away. Then, they told you to start acting like an adult, so you got rid of the carefree in you. Then, they came for your appearance, masks after masks you bought for yourself; whether the child in you could afford further liabilities or not, you had no time to spare a thought about yourself. Responsibilities after responsibilities, you burdened yourself with. You started wearing up, your body gave up, and you still didn’t pause.

Then, came the silence, dark and ferocious it appeared to you. And that’s when you finally heard a song, your song. A song that all the fractions of your being were playing for all those seasons you were wilting away. But you had no time to pause the noise that was stopping you to hear the melody of your being. So accustomed you’ve now become to the noise that anything soulful petrifies you. You fear your own song. So adulterated your self has now become that a tinge of purity puts you into despair.

All those pieces you chose to throw away, watched you evolve into the reality you now are. They contain all the fragments of your self, incomplete, hence they took the shape of memories. You dropped them away at the roadside, but how could your memories leave you behind? You are all they have. Not always do you make memories, sometimes, the memories make you too.

Not always do you have a right to discard parts of your own being. Sometimes, your fragments can obligate you too, to take care of them and their half written stories. The past feels fatigued too, of being at one place for too long. Perhaps, all things need fresh air to sustain.

Write me a letter

Go on then. Pick up your pieces. Let me see what they look like. You are not your fragments anymore, I know. They won’t completely fit you. You’ve become more of a void now, not one that exists within but one that is the basis of your very existence. You find solace in that emptiness, I know. Your being has been the guardian of so many secrets for so long. Secrets that you haven’t even told yourself. Secrets, you are too scared to confront. Secrets, your skin wears with all the shades of grey.

So many summers have drenched in the warmth of September rain. Neither did you allow the autumn breeze to wash away the dust nor did you open the door to some sunshine.

Go on then today. Write me a letter. You know you have been dragging this weight for so many seasons. So many arguments, discussions and dialogues have you been a part of, with yourself. So consumed you feel now, that you simply make yourself understand it as a part of your self.

Your darkness has evolved into a mature being now. You wear your scars with pleasure, you’ve even learned to decorate your secrets with scarves and shades. So vulnerable you feel that you’ve built your whole world in an illusion. Security, is what you seek in that cage of yours.

Go on then, write me something. Trace the curves of your own darkness. That old writing pad of yours, the one that you sang your silly love stories to, craves for a careless embrace. All those nights you wasted feeling monotonous, she absorbed some of your emptiness. That writing pad is almost completely desolated now.

Get out of yourself then, throw some colour in those blank pages. Aren’t you exhausted of being held now? Can you recall what it felt like to have a hold of something, a pen, perhaps? Do you remember how the alphabets felt with the smooth embraces of your curves? For so many years, you gave your scars a shelter, let words undress them today.

Write me a letter, please.

Leaves

In the shade of one September afternoon, they fly to me. Crumbled hearts, wrinkled faces, withered souls, they appear. How can they still have the zest to fly, I wonder. So many summers, they awaited for the sun to dry the life out of them. So many winters, they stood at the corner making way for the glaring light to fall on the earth. So many monsoons passed by, so many clouds they opened their arms to, drench me with your sorrows, they whispered. Sometimes, the pain was so deep that for many twilights they wailed, not once did the leaves complain. Sometimes, the sky sobbed softly, sometimes the water flowed ravenously like a sea merging into an ocean, without questions, without doubts.

Some days, the drops fell down in melancholy. Some days, the clouds felt at ease too soon to realise that the bodies of the leaves were still dusted with scars from the past. Even when the leaves were soiled with tears of resentment, the skin aged before time, they didn’t complain.

Doesn’t she get tired in this argument between seasons? Has she lost her desire to be taken care of? As if her only role was to witness this game. Was she given birth to just accept everything thrown at her? Has the leaf lost the ‘I’ or did it never exist for her, I wonder. Is the leaf showing the world what surrender means? Is she even aware of what she has been portraying for so many lives? 

The leaf does not even have an appetite for recognition. She does her work silently, away from gaze of the world. She is born timeless, without age or name; different shades, different hues, varied compositions, very rarely does she become a part of our lives.

May be her moment of admiration comes once when silently walking, the breeze makes a frail beauty fall, may be the little life in her dances when a soul finally stares into her eye, marking the rims of a beloved book with her name. 

Questions

Do you sometimes wonder that the best of all times spent were rather just a silver lining amidst dark clouds? As if all the places we’ve lived in were like people who came along to touch our lives in an inexplicable way. Do you wonder if you’d feel that emotion again? Perhaps, the way we feel an emotion has more significance than the emotion itself. Is it the emotion that touches us or the person? What is it that warms our heart, the sun or the sunshine? Is it the melody of the song or the whirlpool of emotions it brings? The moment or the memory it carries?

Why is it that some raindrops hum a half forgotten song while others drench us with long lost love? Sometimes the balcony feels cozier than usual, why? Is it the woods that silently whisper a secret or the road we choose to walk upon?

The winds change and we must change with it. But why is it that some winds bring tornadoes of devastation so deep that the ‘I’ becomes unrecognizable; while some winds tarnish away every masquerade until the withered soul is allowed to breathe.

Was it the pebble that caused a riot in the lake or was it something in the water? Was the water waiting to be stirred, shaken from the calm of illusions? What is it that decides how deeply the ripples embrace the soul of the water? The throw or how much the water was longing to be shaken? Did the throw reach far enough to cause a riot in the heart of the water? Does the water also wonder if she would ever be touched the same way again? Would she be able to caress the ripples ever again? Has her desire to be touched satiated?