How long has it been since you’ve felt the urge to write, to pen down something in obedience to the little voice inside you which says, “write”? No. This is not another whine story, neither any propaganda of what may come yet. Perhaps this is an ode to all those fleeting moments of life; to all the chalky residues those that have been left behind. I wish to write in a way that when I trace my fingertips over them, I could, on any day, rest with a self-satisfied smile, and a gratified one that.
Perhaps this is an ode to the poetry that I’ve been gifted with, to be able to write and be written about, to be cherished and held dear.
Perhaps this is an ode to how everything begins at a point, lose its way, and then get back to the same point to re-discover all that’s been lost, however with a change in characters and places.
Perhaps this is an ode to the zephyr that creeps and crawls and thaws the very person who’s taken refuge in the security of the monotony that lets no one else to take the sacred space, yet finds a reincarnation and caves in.
Perhaps this is an ode to the learning and the absurdities that make no sense and then mean the world.
Perhaps this is an ode to the trust that stays strong in silence that can assume, presume, confirm, be denied and yet know what was and still choose to stay silent.
Perhaps this is an ode to the numerous cups of coffee, sugarless, rum cake conversations, post-its, and board pins.
Perhaps this is an ode to the picturesque sunsets- purple, pink, orange and grey that I’ve missed, and yet I don’t take time to mention bout the sunrise. Ironical!
Perhaps this is an ode to the auguries (a smile escapes as I type the word) Auguries- How many and how priceless! A constant wonder that I can never get back in time to claim, reclaim, and yet be assured they’ve been all mine. Far, yet close.
Perhaps this is an ode to all the paltry pleasures of life, that make life, day in and day out, those when reminisced on a sleepless night make the insomnia worthwhile.
Perhaps this is an ode to the not so redundant love and fresh air. Sometimes, all the time (I’d dare say), they’re sufficient to live. Much as I’d like to make mention I’d wanted to be someone, I’m not and cannot be in person and in flesh, but certainly not otherwise. I know that in my bones and everything falls in place.
This is an ode. Perhaps.
