Sucharita_07
REFLECTION
August. ‘08
Morning. 9.00
"Blinding light!
The open door of the terrace a bright shaft, and my sleep succumbs to it.
I slept on my journal, before the mirror’s insistent reflection, and its seepage this morning was a clot in my mind. My head’s dent in the cover a hollowed out pillow-that-could-have-been. A crucible for last night’s yen.
I saw your image flit past the mirror as I stepped out on to the terrace. The image called me back, my curiosity, my yearning and molded them all together into a longing that wrapped its arms around me and I couldn’t get you out of my mind the whole day long. You came and went in that mirror and my thoughts were a cacophony in my ears, echoing as they were with the night’s syllables of love and loss. My arms reached out to the image and tried to draw you close, knowing well that you were only a mirage. That night when you drew away and vanished into the mist I promised myself never to think of you. But I do, every passing moment, and today I saw you close to my heart.
I have put away the mirror now, covered it with brown paper torn off hurriedly from old packages and books, plastered them over in a montage of emotion that you will never understand. The montage will shield your appearance in that reflection till I peel off the brown camouflage of thought and pain. And you will rest in peace in that cold chamber from where you refuse to acknowledge me or my truth, for suspicion is never a clean word and it festers till you die …………."
…………
Hard work, writing. Words flutter, within the hard bounds of the journal that seize my thoughts to throw them back at me. Ochre and green and gold. Pain trapped in motifs tempts me to touch their ephemeral, gauze-like imprints. But writing is hard work my mother used to say, and I shy away from what I write, hug myself close within the hollow of my knees and elbows. But memories. Impetuous Turbulent Disobedient. They rise in a rush at my temples and impel me back to the pen lying nib-up between the restless pages.
Why did I start writing? When? Was it after you left or before? To know, I have to dig deep; now the words tumble, enraged and delirious, grope along the line-less space over memory-entangled emptiness.
One day I will look back at this shimmer-edged notebook and search my love-lost. Your gift to me. For you, this journal was to be the chalice of our love. It is, but without you to verify what I think and feel, to fill the grail. You return to your roots. Dust to dust.
And me?
A butterfly. Carrying the weight of your dust on my fragility, caught among words that are my only solace.
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August. ‘08
Morning. 9.00
"Blinding light!
The open door of the terrace a bright shaft, and my sleep succumbs to it.
I slept on my journal, before the mirror’s insistent reflection, and its seepage this morning was a clot in my mind. My head’s dent in the cover a hollowed out pillow-that-could-have-been. A crucible for last night’s yen.
I saw your image flit past the mirror as I stepped out on to the terrace. The image called me back, my curiosity, my yearning and molded them all together into a longing that wrapped its arms around me and I couldn’t get you out of my mind the whole day long. You came and went in that mirror and my thoughts were a cacophony in my ears, echoing as they were with the night’s syllables of love and loss. My arms reached out to the image and tried to draw you close, knowing well that you were only a mirage. That night when you drew away and vanished into the mist I promised myself never to think of you. But I do, every passing moment, and today I saw you close to my heart.
I have put away the mirror now, covered it with brown paper torn off hurriedly from old packages and books, plastered them over in a montage of emotion that you will never understand. The montage will shield your appearance in that reflection till I peel off the brown camouflage of thought and pain. And you will rest in peace in that cold chamber from where you refuse to acknowledge me or my truth, for suspicion is never a clean word and it festers till you die …………."
…………
Hard work, writing. Words flutter, within the hard bounds of the journal that seize my thoughts to throw them back at me. Ochre and green and gold. Pain trapped in motifs tempts me to touch their ephemeral, gauze-like imprints. But writing is hard work my mother used to say, and I shy away from what I write, hug myself close within the hollow of my knees and elbows. But memories. Impetuous Turbulent Disobedient. They rise in a rush at my temples and impel me back to the pen lying nib-up between the restless pages.
Why did I start writing? When? Was it after you left or before? To know, I have to dig deep; now the words tumble, enraged and delirious, grope along the line-less space over memory-entangled emptiness.
One day I will look back at this shimmer-edged notebook and search my love-lost. Your gift to me. For you, this journal was to be the chalice of our love. It is, but without you to verify what I think and feel, to fill the grail. You return to your roots. Dust to dust.
And me?
A butterfly. Carrying the weight of your dust on my fragility, caught among words that are my only solace.
Poll Rate this entry