The work at this side
of the fence is never ending and the irony of this land is that people, after a
point of time, can do nothing but toil to pass the 50 percent mark. Threads of
different colours entangle her, making things a blur occasionally that the very
coloured threads seem to enmesh together to a ball of wool that is colourless, odourless
and directionless.
And while the mouth did
its chatter amidst the game of ease and tension that the clouds played with the
erratic warmth of the sun, something bewildering happened. The waves of the
shore began to recede in a way unlike its nature. The sand of the beach became dense
and heavy. Even the wind questioned its nature, for it would fly with the
breeze and make different shapes that which the dunes would love. And on this
beach, in a corner lay a book questioning its existence. Someone threw it in
despair and disgust for the essence of words had lost its meaning. And while
the tornado came by and left, the dead silence of that very moment lingered on,
for someone far away lost her life to words. Speechless.Wordless. A barren
land.
That autumn where the
leaves were crumpled and crushed under the weight of existence came by and
went. As each leaf slowly left its haven for the burial, it wondered of all the
days that went by, swaying and gliding with the cool breeze, with its pals.
Some of them breathed their last breath months ago, and some were days away
from the earth. In its last breath it thanked the sun, the rain and the tree,
for the stay was warm and nourishing.
She took that clearing
into the forest to find a way out, only to find that it would take her back
in-to a world that always belonged to her. As she walked on the leaves that
cried listening to her tears, that shared timing with their death, she saw a
few trees which bloomed with all their youth.
Now she sits on that favourite
spot which faces the forest. The sun, in all its glory promised it’s presence
even on wintery days. It comes by to say a hi for it knows she feels cold. And
there she holds the very book, which was abandoned for the betrayal of words.
Today, the words cry, not because they were aimless or cruel, but because the
tornado ensured that no order remains in its presence.
And
it is with words as with sunbeams, the more they are condensed, the deeper they
are.
The security of the sun makes her rise each day. Sweet words exchanged. The
promises give rise to budding leaves on the branches that were left barren and
lifeless. Life continues to evolve. She knows not of what shall entail but with
the sun there the smile surely stays. She goes back to reading and owning that
which was bereft of her.
P.S:
1. The title is a line by Rilke
2. The line in Italics has been written by Robert Southey.
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