Not reminiscent of last night’s argument to the full lit moon. Every trace of morose thoughts fade away....
DEAR DIARY
Filtering rays of morning sunlight through the window sill. The shade of crimson red it creates on the skin. The scent of air. How it is pure and untouched. The soft touch of fresh bedsheets. The innocence of an embrace to guide through the day. How every fearful demon subsides as the sun rises. The clarity of an untouched sky. Not reminiscent of last night’s argument to the full lit moon. Every trace of morose thoughts fade away.
And the day is ahead of us. Full of a million opportunities and beautiful serendipity. It spreads like a blank page of possibilities and ideas. And intentions of conscious living. The taste of freshly brewed coffee. How it awakens the taste buds and creates buzzing in the mind. A canvas in the mind, awaiting a tender touch to splatter life’s colours across borders and outside designated lines. Creating abstract art out of daily errands.
The way a list goes on and the calendar paves way, granting meaning to ordinary days, fulfilling extraordinary lives. The way every meticulous detail runs through the harness like exquisite clockwork. Each second falls through and makes space for memory. An eternal one. Etched in the mind. The miracle of remembering. And when it rains, the soft patter of raindrops on the window glass. Tracing tracks with past memories. An aroma rises from the outside. And it envelopes every loose end. Tying together what was left unsaid. It is murmured in the soft noise it creates over skin. Drenched in yester years. Cloaked in naivety it finds its way through the golden hour. And relives in familiar scents of dinner table conversations. As lights dim with the passing wind. And the flames blow with time. The fire burns inside the heart. Each time the sun completes its journey. And softly kisses the horizon and fingers entwine in a consensual promise. One where each thought fits another like a puzzle. And all it needs is its sweet time to realise an idea.
The notion of true love, buds in the womb of barren trees. At the brink of death. A coincidental miracle breathes a soul within it. And petals blooms against the noise of non-believers and materialistic hearts. A priceless gift is taken without notice. A present, of living in the present moment. Who knew the essence of life. Till it rushed through the veins of blossoming trees. And manifested through blushing cheeks in the shade of spring, abloom. Imprinted in the ink of falling monsoon. Rushing floods through the streets of the heart. Picking up skinny lovers and hearts worn on sleeves. Washing them and wiping them clean of all pain. As the comfortable silence looms over. And the dream is over. You wonder, you don’t know how good something is till it is gone.
