A poignant recollection

A POIGNANT RECOLLECTION

The letters, numbers slowly fade, the walls cave in, the sun fades off and the vision is just gone. But still, poetry escapes through the breath, in sighs that rhyme with words in the mind. Words, words that never leave the mind yet very much alive. Moving towards the window to catch an ounce of breath, but everything is so vacant, a fog that is quartz grey obscuring the vison. The feeling of the wind, the moisture of it as it brushes on the delicate skin, but filled with a gloomy aura. Looking back inside the room, the chandeliers hanging so low, swinging so close to the ground, the once flawless ceiling, so worn out, so torn and creaking.  The lights flickering, every minute faster that the last, walls closer, and the lights, the lights fluctuating so rapidly, like a dying lamp in sepulchers.  The memory eludes, a lump in the throat, thoughts, emotions crashing upon the shore like an evening when the ocean has a high tide.

Its all in the mind, maybe, the wistful longing of what once was, the echoes of yester years, the fleeting flashbacks, the coldness intertwined with a vibrant vitality. A chair placed across the room, one leg shorter, or not maybe, finding solace in the one object relatable, one that is lesser than its own complete being, so is the soul. Remembering the Brocken chairs in school, the silhouettes of these wooden seats dumped at the corner of the school, transversing this terrace of solitude, evoking a wistful longing of when their Prescence gave solace to those around. But time, time with its relentless cadence, sweeps away the embroidery of every story, leaving behind only fragments, like crumbs that fall off the table during breakfast.

Memories shroud the moment, obscuring clarity so much desired, igniting a symphony of confusion. Not present in the present but in the past, stuck in the endless cycle, lined with dreams filled with stars. These dreams however, are now strung together with the ruins that stain the mind with a resentful remembrance. Only hoping they can wither away into the night. Walking towards the chair, legs feeling heavy, unable to take a step, pain with every repeated breath, muscles tightening, so deserted and abandoned, like an oasis in the Sahara. Bundled up emotions, heavy and seeping deep in the bones, engraving itself inside. Taking another step, not really a step but an attempt to drag the foot, but the pain, a December kind of pain that stays through the January dust and its unforgiving sun. The type of agony that syncs with time. 

Finally seated after a couple of trials, thoughts flood back, an ache of battles etched in every fiber of the being, its the knowledge of the storm raging within, relentless and winning without the sight of a horizon. But the chair, even though bent, gives some kind of calm. Thoughts no longer twirling, lights balanced, and the low swaying chandeliers still in place.  Maybe the mind just wrote a narrative-less narrative, formless but in form. In the eerie of the night, the possibilities to drift to a flowerless garden, with tones of hues. Maybe the mind plays the game, a relentless game that lingers longer than its welcome, taking the mind to cold, dark valleys, an unstable darkness.

All this seems like an illusion, like a shell starved from light, but all it takes is a wave to crack the shells, or to open the door and simply crawl outside. Step out and see how long the sky has wept, how it offers solace to the dim stars. Away, away from those walls, to a place under the sun, to a world filled with paintings, whispers from the wind, random smiles from strangers, where the sun breaks through the stormy clouds. Thoughts tangle, rattle when given the chance. But a simple coffee, ice cream, or a walk in the street might quieten them. Stop them from lurking in the midair, humming along to obnoxious clanks and midday violins. And remember, as the morning comes, flowers bloom, and soon they wither and confusion fades.

The letters, numbers slowly fade, the walls cave in, the sun fades off and the vision is just gone. But still, poetry escapes through the breath, in sighs that rhyme with words in the mind. Words, words that never leave the mind yet very much alive. Moving towards the window to catch an ounce of breath, but everything is so vacant, a fog that is quartz grey obscuring the vision. The feeling of the wind, the moisture of it as it brushes on the delicate skin, but filled with a gloomy aura. Looking back inside the room, the chandeliers hanging so low, swinging so close to the ground, the once flawless ceiling, so worn out, so torn and creaking.  The lights flickering, every minute faster that the last, walls closer, and the lights, the lights fluctuating so rapidly, like a dying lamp in sepulchers.  The memory eludes, a lump in the throat, thoughts, emotions crashing upon the shore like an evening when the ocean has a high tide.

Its all in the mind, maybe, the wistful longing of what once was, the echoes of yester years, the fleeting flashbacks, the coldness intertwined with a vibrant vitality. A chair placed across the room, one leg shorter, or not maybe, finding solace in the one object relatable, one that is lesser than its own complete being, so is the soul. Remembering the Brocken chairs in school, the silhouettes of these wooden seats dumped at the corner of the school, transversing this terrace of solitude, evoking a wistful longing of when their Presence gave solace to those around. But time, time with its relentless cadence, sweeps away the embroidery of every story, leaving behind only fragments, like crumbs that fall off the table during breakfast.

Memories shroud the moment, obscuring clarity so much desired, igniting a symphony of confusion. Not present in the present but in the past, stuck in the endless cycle, lined with dreams filled with stars. These dreams however, are now strung together with the ruins that stain the mind with a resentful remembrance. Only hoping they can wither away into the night. Walking towards the chair, legs feeling heavy, unable to take a step, pain with every repeated breath, muscles tightening, so deserted and abandoned, like an oasis in the Sahara. Bundled up emotions, heavy and seeping deep in the bones, engraving itself inside. Taking another step, not really a step but an attempt to drag the foot, but the pain, a December kind of pain that stays through the January dust and its unforgiving sun. The type of agony that syncs with time. 

Finally seated after a couple of trials, thoughts flood back, an ache of battles etched in every fiber of the being, its the knowledge of the storm raging within, relentless and winning without the sight of a horizon. But the chair, even though bent, gives some kind of calm. Thoughts no longer twirling, lights balanced, and the low swaying chandeliers still in place.  Maybe the mind just wrote a narrative-less narrative, formless but in form. In the eerie of the night, the possibilities to drift to a flowerless garden, with tones of hues. Maybe the mind plays the game, a relentless game that lingers longer than its welcome, taking the mind to cold, dark valleys, an unstable darkness.

All this seems like an illusion, like a shell starved from light, but all it takes is a wave to crack the shells, or to open the door and simply crawl outside. Step out and see how long the sky has wept, how it offers solace to the dim stars. Away, away from those walls, to a place under the sun, to a world filled with paintings, whispers from the wind, random smiles from strangers, where the sun breaks through the stormy clouds. Thoughts tangle, rattle when given the chance. But a simple coffee, ice cream, or a walk in the street might quieten them. Stop them from lurking in the midair, humming along to obnoxious clanks and midday violins. And remember, as the morning comes, flowers bloom, and soon they wither and confusion fades.