familiar?
cant capture the depth of the sky and water, nor the horizon’s low, but home is in the penumbra of a city’s shadow at the turn of a day (Taken with instagram)
what is the importance of a date? if the death can wipe out life with such a clean blow, what have we left to remember birthdays for but to count the years not lived?
and yet, it hits me like the seasonally brutal winds, naïvely unexpected and ready to knock me off my feet if i’m not careful.
‘could have been 55’
what does that even mean?
it is almost belittling to the 47 years of life that inspired to a level beyond the bounds of my vocabulary, in whichever of my tongues i may attempt to employ
could have been what?
more loving? dare you imply that he loved any less than was humanly possible for him to?
more generous? you couldn’t imagine what he gave, again and again, without counting
i tire of attempting to ennumerate the ineffable. i could go on, but the endlessness of it makes the decision of where to go next exhausting. efforts are concentrated upon what truly honours the memory and example i was gifted: emulating it all with every breath, or at least attempting to. satisfaction is smiling upon hearing any description of myself that i’d attribute to him.
i just remember, as i do every other day, what a role model is
and pretend that i can be one too, one day
hand-drawn surprises for two special flowers,
some of the best friends imaginable
sharing in remembrance of drawing, waiting for when moments won’t be so strictly accounted for, so that i may resume the things that mean more than can be expressed
(click for titles)
benaam rishta woh,
bechain karta jo,
ho na sake jo bayaan, darmiyaan
the drapery of frigid winds loosens its grip on the world and allows light to linger longer, saturating further the colours that are ready to brighten
climate coencides perfectly, as if a conciously chosen metaphor for new beginnings and the hatching of the unexpected.
memories of past years and how these lengthening days were spent, gazing upon the dozens of windmills upon the lake, continually moved by the summer air, with pages filling and turning almost as frequently;
un-learning the hurried scamper through condensing breath and re-learning the pace of summer strolls with relaxed breaths becomes the lesson of the day
the warmth of springtime showers’ chill as the smells of memories flood the brightened air erases all time
half of the beauty of the present is the knowledge of what these days have become in the past.
(n.) the state not only after but while exerting as much as can be mustered.
stifling yawns, splashing eyes awake, resting swollen feet and fading voices.
coaxing the self prematurely out of the regenerative folds of a bed to continue the unfinished.
learning, in order to be better able to contribute. making the most of the blesssing of time, something that should never be labelled ‘free’ or ‘spare’ when even all humanity combined posesses so little. hoarding any source of energy knowing how much is consumed in these efforts.
the impetus that keeps the mind awake at night, asking for help to keep the purest intentions and reach the ultimate goal.
synonyms: satisfaction
(n.) the exhausting understanding that you must work yourself bare for nearly nothing;
understanding is built like a palace from toothpicks, or cultivated the way you do a fragile garden survivable only in the tiniest possible combination of circumstances.
so as you explain and elaborate, persuade and articulate, and hope that you’re getting farther than those who came before you, the last ones who tried till they gave up, or tried till their end
and as you try to build understanding, catalyze change,
you push back the truth that lives inside you as much as it does outside of you
and paint the futility with rays of hope
because without optimism
we are all just waiting for our end
how can i explain texture to you,
when the only words they taught us were the names of the colours?
how am i to tell of these lines,
when you know only numbers and lengths?
how little do you know of my thoughts,
if they come not in words?
how can i paint my emotions,
when their colours change so often they never exist as one, only between two?
there is no language that we all share; we only hope to get by, pretending to understand, as you will pretend to understand me as long as i try to let you into the space of my mind. the closest we will ever get is gazing like the afternoon sun through foggy, yellowed windows, only a glow through translucence to embrace the lazy dust nobody cares to see, never quite reaching the musty, aged furniture in the middle of the room. ugly furniture, but with character. perhaps that is why; most would dispose of the offensive print and outdated styles without enough appreciation. but we will never know, because they will never see.
not going up the mountain you think i am, because before you can gauge my direction the path has turned to where i always knew we would end up … and continues on
