Old stories come to life..an
old self surfaces over the currents of the present and shows itself on the
banks by the comfort of which the new one sits..the past washes up and leaves a
glaze on feet too afraid to venture deep. In the nightly repose of oblivion it
shines with the soft luminosity of beach sand, coarser to
the feet that leave it behind with every step but fail to let it go in its
entirety. It doesnt wash off even with soap that made great promises. Hands try
to rub it off only to be saddled with it. The shine as much as the coarseness.
A dark corner could be found but it glows. There is light ahead. Perhaps the
blinding present unconcerned with meaning might dull it. But the body stays
limp. Unmoving.
Conversations occupy centre
stage that from the distance of a plugged out existence reach out as a
boulevard of broken dreams. In these shadows one lurks summoning a courage that
stands in the limelight laughing at one's cowardice, beckoning in a playful
dare knowing one would never pick truth. Truths pick us and question the ease
of our being, this dance, this theatre of the absurd we course through in the
safety of rickety boats unwilling to take the oars in our hands and steer the
way, going with the flow to avoid the stagnation that rots us deep within.
It will be morning soon. One
would have shed the past by then. Or the other way around. But the sinking
feeling in the heart, ever so constant, will take a tired mind and a pair of
eager feet back to the river...to watch time float in currents visible and not,
to see it wash up to the shore and reach out to limbs crippled by fear. One
will carry a bit of time back, and see it fall off in bits and scatter on the
paths one takes, rub it off in futile desperation, watch it glow on the bed in
the dark of the night, look for it in the new dawn with grateful regret. Taking
away. Leaving behind. Going back. The circle of life. The journey goes on.
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