That day

It is a familiar comfort that welcomes you. A cold floor, but inviting. You stumble around in the corners of your university library, sometimes having to turn lights on. Your fingers reach out to the multitude of books on display, and you blink. A touch here, a caress there and a sigh elsewhere.
You know you are alone. So alone. You walk further into the darkness, it takes you in without complain.
You pick a book, finally. Too burnt to walk to a table, you sprawl on the floor. Feet pointing to places unknown.
Fingers trace the name on the cover. Dante.
You read book one, Hell. Something about the words that make you feel melancholy. Supposed to happen, you guess. You go on and catch up with more of him.
Before you know it, the warmth and comfort of that library is not a part of the fabric that defines your life.
But somehow. The feeling comes back. Sighing for the unknown, just like back then. You hit the find button on your computer now. Ah, Dante. The pages are not yellow this time.
You are awake once more, you feel the emptiness once more, you feel the blackness pulling you closer. The words are there. Emotions rekindled. Night begins to fall. Just like it does for Dante and Virgil. Flights through dark and unknown forests.
“Through me the way into the suffering city, through me the way to the eternal pain, through me the way that runs among the lost…Abandon every hope, who enter here.”
Pages turn.
Loud thunder stirs Dante from his sleep. Dante finds himself in a new place, on the edge of an abyss the bottom of which he cannot see.
You tip toe quietly through many more pages. Move on to Purgatory, to Paradiso.
You touch the screen of your computer, almost reaching out to something. You know. The darkness never left.

You tell the world

You tell the world that a boy was born with the body of a snake they will believe it. You tell them that you can go around the world in 28 minutes 41 seconds, they will believe it. You put a sign on a bench saying wet paint, they will touch it .
It doesn't stop there.
You tell the lizard on my wall heading towards the book on bugs that it is virtual reality, he will not listen.

What I got to do

I got to get me one of those. A beer milkshake. Or a beer and coffee cocktail. And trace the notes of Schubert's violin compositions on a lake with stars. And make my hands one with the blessing Buddha. And sing songs of the night with elves, on a swing of lilies with amber studs. And curl up in the gentle curves of a yellow half moon. And fall into a gentle slumber, with two stars pecking my cheek. And dream of angels stroking my hair. And an invisible, gurgling laughter fills the sky. As I sleep.
And there are no nightmares.
And I wake.
And there are no nightmares.

Left unsaid

A piece of prose on a fellow blogger's page has egged me into writing this apology finally.
She was young, beautiful, full of love, life, laughter, dashes of innocence here and there. All this was with her till one singular moment within the confines of cold hospital walls. Convinced that life is just, and things can't possibly go wrong, she fell asleep. And then it happened.
He said one final goodbye. She saw his shell. Felt like he was whispering to her. Be strong, I'm not actually leaving you.
She awoke, shaken, and just that moment they got to hear. A "sorry" from the doctors who said he was doing fine just a few hours ago. Bitter tears, harsh realities.
She went back to the beach they visited a week ago. Where he sat next to her on the beach and said he'd like to stay there forever. She went back to do just that. Make him one with the ocean he so loved. The saltiness of the sea, the saltiness on her face all one, all the same.
What will now happen of this little girl?
Will she also look for small pleasures, sweet memories as she goes through a wardrobe, searching for a familiar smell? Will she see that time doesn't wait, everytime she holds a familiar watch in her hands? Will she smile with a tinge of sadness as she picks up the phone he always held? Will she remember those stories he liked telling her, will she remember his final promise that he will always be with her? Will she celebrate the life that once was?
I donot know the answer. And I am sorry, that this happened to someone very young. That this was sudden. That he tried telling you. And you somehow did not see.
I am sorry.
You always will be his little girl.

Two gallons of wine

Two gallons is a great deal of wine, even for two paisanos. Spiritually the jugs maybe graduated thus: Just below the shoulder of the first bottle, serious and concentrated conversation. Two inches farther down, sweetly sad memory. Three inches more, thoughts of old and satisfactory loves. An inch, thoughts of old and bitter loves. Bottom of the first jug, general and undirected sadness. Shoulder of the second jug, black, unholy, despon
ency. Two fingers down, a song of death or longing. A thumb, every other song each one knows. The graduations stop here, for the trial splits and there is no certainty.
- John Steinbeck, Tortilla Flat.

Thought for the day

Eagles soar high, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines.