I often fabricate fantasies about places I wish to live in. A town, seldom visited by any being, where seasons could be discerned by their own distinct beauty, leaves carelessly slipping from faint wintry air. Unlike me, cautiously walking on slippery streets after a sudden downpour, consequence of an undefined dull weather. Panting under the rushed skies, my chest demanded a slow exhale ; eyes, a lively tranquility and ears craved a hush.
So, I looked around the busy street, often overlooked by me. And after a much easier gait, suddenly the flickering street lamps were more like gleaming celestial bodies floating admist the cosmos, but nearer. Hollers of those mid-aged vendors calling out customers were now some parent passionately singing rhymes of their well-off, sweet, shiny mouth-watering fruits and vegetables grown under their nurture. And the street went to a much softer pace, a place I wished for, was just a fantasy away. Wandering on the street, my shoulders collided with strangers alike, but they didn't care, maybe because they are lost in their own fantasies.
But tonight, there was a tinge of sadness in her voice as he held her waist through that slinky-black-gown she wore for their anniversary, embracing the contours of her palms with his fingers, delecate as ever.
Perfuming her voluptuous flesh with jasmines, she ornamented herself with a pleasant piece of jewel. A crystal pendent beautifying her faint collarbone was now strangling her neck as she realised, the murky smell of his ciggerettes was melded with that of lavender. But she smelt jasmines?
Downpour which was screeching to my ear and scribbling love songs for some, was now dawdling softly on roof shingles and making outlandish sounds which perfectly entitled a song, silence would hum.
Strolling in those drenched streets, I walked on brimmed potholes which reflected the night sky, on roads that were carpeted with clouds and dimmed stars. I sat one of the raindrops hanging loosely on frail tips of shrubs that resided on each corner of street on my index finger and watched this tiny piece of rain melting to my palm.
Branches, now bidding goodbyes to their aged, rusty leaves With wind, proffering them her softest embrace Falling now Flowing, Flapping their dry wings Flying as moths with ecstasy
Leaves, once adorned the branches, now embellishing the grounds Contrasts in patterns, shapes and colour Red, grey and shades of brown But making a beautiful mess Like lovers, poles apart Harmonising in love. Shrouding the cold sombre street With warmth Of a heavy cotton quilt.
Cold winds, piercing through my ear Singing welcoming tunes For forthcoming winter. For leaves, then covered with rainy mists will now be graced with winter ammil....
I'm lying in a stygian confined space Of what I assume is a pine wood-case And to my surprise I'm no claustrophobic. Of what it smells like some fragrant blooms Breathing their last breaths above my chest roses, babies breath, some hand picked lilacs But Lilies is all I smelt. Of what I've read lilies symbolised purity but sheer death.
I can't sense my feets, Now frozen longing for warmth and apricity I hear wind there was a time, I could feel it on my face
Seasons have passed For all that is left on the flowers are their little twigs For I hear weeps no more All I hear is dry leaves-wilted petals making noises frail as they move with the rhythm of wintry gale I remember, It sounded of trickles, from an hour long pour On rocks and spec of grasses that grew on me That was when I smelt the purest petrichore At times, I couldn't trace nights or dawn But now that I know When baby wrens utter their lively charms And when the ineluctable silence invites gloom in her arms
Years went by I'm now a part of this inevitable place residing under morning haze ...
That One vignette of 'l o v e' is still unknown....
For Aristotle defines love as " to will the good of another " For Gottfried " to be delighted by the happiness of another "
Love is the most adored theme for artists since ages went by. I think that One vignette is what they try to find
With two dancers, giving a glistening glimpse of intimacy by intertwining their fingers as the performance ends
Or a painter, beautifying the star-crossed lovers inspired by Shakespearen tragedy of the glorious-gloomy romance between romeo and juliet, which lasted for four days but lived for an eternity
Or a poet , Who must've penned his sweetest ballad when he first fell for her jejune heart And Jotted his vulnerability as he watches her turning into fine dust while still in his arms as she went back to welkin
For her, It's like that soft musical which she can't get tired listning to, even after playing it myriad of times Or a tiny droplet of silt That gives the softest embrace to her palm whilst she caress the air with her hands escaping the window frame
But she knows That One vignette of 'l o v e' is still unknown....
Merry Christmas, y'all. Pardon the long post. This is about Rudo, a reindeer. The piece is rusty and in its raw form, just hoping for the Christmas gleam to fall upon it.
Save animals, that's the message behind this. It's as simple as that. Let's save them.
The reindeer, also known as caribou are found in North America. _____________________________________________________ I call this piece, 'Rudo'
Last night, I was cleaning the crumbly shelves by the fireplace when I found it, my father’s composition book. I remember he used to take me out for a walk every dawn and hummed this old Reindeer song as I looked at him gazing onto the footsteps over the thick snow by the curb. He used to write some things on the disintegrated pieces of rustic parchment paper he always had in the side pocket of his burgundy windcheater, dark enough to deceit the darkness of a bleak night itself.
He used to tell me about Santa’s reindeers. I still remember how his eyes sparkled while talking about them. He was all over the place on the Christmas dinner of ‘97 when he was chanting songs about each one of them. He talked about how swift and brisk Dasher was, Dancer’s shimmy and wiggle, Prancer being a bighead but mushy, about Vixen’s magic, Comet’s comeliness, the warmheartedness of Cupid, Donner’s loud warbling and out of tune melodies, Blitzen and his rivalry with Dasher, Rudolph’s red glowy nose, and about Olive’s disguise.
We used to discuss amendments and how it’s important to save them. He had a knack for genetics and I never did, but I still listened to his mutation theories. “Rangifer tarandus” read the first page of his notebook, the scientific name for Reindeers. I riffled through the pages and it was quite a constellation. The small remarks about its footprint he used to make, I saw tiny bits of that rust glued on the notebook’s pages. I could smell the cold between its pages and amidst that smell, I could sense a secret his heart was burdened under. I was afraid to read ahead, discover more, and I guess what I’m really afraid of was the fact that I’m going to miss him much more now. I placed my favorite musk pillow under my head, and over him, over his secret.
I woke up different and afraid. I didn’t know if turning the pages would be as easy as it was to lift the pillow, and it wasn’t. I read about how he loved Reindeers as a kid. He used to caress them under the gleaming moon.
I read an entry dated 2nd March 1971-
“He is learning to whisper, haha. He whispers my name sometimes, quite often I’d say. James, he’d say and smile at me. I guess I’d move him to my backyard, and under that parched shade, I’ll teach him to speak. I just wish dad loves him too, I know he will. I’m sure. I’m so sure.”
9th Novembe 1971r-
“Dad asked me if I buried Rudo or not, and he asked me about his gun which he used to kill Rudo. I told him I buried both of them. “Good”, he said. Hmm!”
16th July 1972-
“Rudo fractured his leg today, that idiot ass. Forests are unsafe, it’s my fault that he’s been staying there for too long now. It’s my fault. I should have tried harder. I don’t feel good about all the lies I had to tell my father. Rudo, you idiot ass. I love you!”
27th September 1972-
“I can’t breathe, I can’t..I. I killed him. He saw me chasing Rudo in the green, he came running towards me and Rudo attacked my dad. I keep his gun in a wooden box, and I keep that box in the hollow, always close. He started lashing Rudo with his iron buckle, I saw blood flowing through my Rudo’s left eye,..I couldn’t stop myself. I aimed it at him, I killed him. I killed my dad. I can’t breathe.”
My hands trembled, my swollen eyes held tears strongly and I blinked them down slowly over the old ink on the yellow pages. I couldn’t believe what I had just read. Love is difficult and mysterious, and it’s pure. Am I a prisoner of love too because there is no hatred I feel for him, even though he killed his dad for Rudo. I wiped my tears and reinforced my guts for there were some more things left for me to feel.
28th December 1983-
“My Rudo is 11 now, he’s getting old. I don’t understand why he leaves the parchment at night and wanders around the front boundary. I’ll take him for a walk tomorrow. Idiot lost the fake red nose I carved for him, idiot lost his Christmas present.”
29th December 1983-
I saw patches of darkness, exactly like those that are imprisoned after someone cries their heart out on paper.
“I am sorry”
“I am sorry Rudo. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I..”
I saw many descriptions of some reindeers, I read about Rudo. Under a heading that said “Cause of death”, it read, “Around 11 on the night of 28th December 1983, a drunkard raced his Honda Accord on the icy sidewalk. Rudo jumped the boundary and was heading towards the forest. The flashlights blinded him. Multiple fractures, excessive loss of blood, and damaged ribs.” I felt a thousand knives lacerate through my heart, all at once.
I saw some more notes about how safe-footpaths could be made, feet lengths of the new generation reindeer, steel costs, barbed wire brands, sidewalk designs that could prevent accidents. I suddenly realized why my dad used to gaze into the forest, and on those footprints over the heavy snow.
2nd August 1985-
“Just 12 kilometers south of the Crater lake, you’ll find an open area under the board name ‘Rudo’. Do something with it, James. Haha, I’m talking to myself. Rudo, you idiot. You made me crazy. I miss you. I love you.”
Dad died because of a cardiac arrest in the fall of ‘03, and It’s almost night now. I’m feeling a lot of things, there’s nothing about Crater Lake in the notebook. All I know is that I’m going to visit somewhere south of the lake, 12 kilometers to be exact. I didn’t know Rudo, but he is something to me now. I miss my dad and it’s going to be one long night.
For if I had deciphered the life clues I may have succeeded. For if I had understood love, someone's heart may have been my muse and I may have not bleeded. For if I had understood the light I may have had no fear of darkness. For if I had understood myself I may have got hold of it all... life, love etc. But I guess all of it was too obscure and I remained unsure
I think and it hurts: to dissect how people laugh, unhappily, and how they text, and not mean a word, to deduce if they smile from their heart, or just by habit, to not see them, but see through them, to wonder if their favourites are a common pleasure, or ones with memories attached, to assume love is not their thing, it's just lust, or to pity for they lie to themselves, when they say they're okay;
I think and it hurts: to try and see if the happy-ever-after stories ended on an ugly note, to imagine the stories behind I-hate-you's, to pray for things to last longer and never know what they are worth, to assume others abhor you, and feel the end of the world, to plan your funeral on your birthday, to make way for tears and not know what to cry for, to think of the past, present, and the future, and forget your own timeframe, to think of all that you lost, and doing so losing more, to think and not know what you're thinking;
I think and think and think, and my thoughts eat me up alive; in my thoughts I die, and resurrect, and die again, resurrect,
die, die, die, die, die,
and I think and it'd have been better to remain dead.
November would always remind me Of moments I neatly wrote about In the pages of my diary back when I was head over heels love-struck with the idea That love stays when you feed it with organic Sugar and spice from cozy cupboards That never run out of cinnamon and peppermint.
3000 I Love Yous hang out on the roof Of my mouth and my hands are sticky With promises dipped in pure honey So, how do you expect me to forget How your name sounds like when it rolls Out of my mouth when I say it out loud?
I want you to know that even if we don't Talk anymore I still remember how your Scent lingers in the air 72 hours after You went out of the door.
And November will always remind me Of two things about you,
Two hearts sings a ballad divine. Your hand touching mine. This is how galaxies collide. And down the slippery path emotions happily slide. Lovers live in world of fantasy Guided by emotional ecstacy. The spark that lives inside, turn into wild fire And ignites lovers desire
She's got a river for a heart, that is blind to all sorts of prejudice and bigotry, that doesn't understand the importance in tracing the good from the bad. It shelters everything within, with her ever so motherly abode, from fallen leaves that are carried away and lead to her feet by the wind to the heavy rocks and pebbles that have anchored a place inside her in the shape of brusies and scars, from fishes that are just some visitors that prey on the smaller ones to the plants that have graced her town, breathing or in the form of corpses.
The sentient energy her body exudes is that of the gushing waters that runs with the force that could tear through everything, whether it's sailing along her flow or opposing her will. And a dormant storm lives inside her skin, that sings the hymns of brokenness and frenzy and one mustn't dare collide with her.
One of the poor fishes, I was, to come across her celestial existence. I dreamt of crossing the two shores, the curves on her face that I never saw meeting. I sought to sail against the flow that seemingly kept on increasing, to find a secret treasure, hidden in the farther ends of the deep, that was never meant to be discovered. To me, it was my destiny. It was a slippery slope and I was well aware of the aggressively flowing waters that never let anyone take a peek of what lied inside of her. A veiled shell she adorned so gracefully, softer than her pink cheeks and harder than the whites of her bones, strong enough to guard her from getting hurt by any outsider and she never let her guard down.