Shattered glass and hollow window panes

Sometimes certain words evoke aural memories. The mere whisper of a place can remind you of a robotic voice announcing the station in a metro. Then its a vicious cycle of remembrances. The station reminds one of the reason one boarded the train, the people it was boarded with, the place one actually got off, the songs sung on the train to pass time, the fun one made of co-passengers etc. The scene is cognitively recreated. It feels real and one desires to go back in time and relive it. I have spent the last couple of hours in such a fabricated reality. Its been a comforting journey. I am a lover of the past times. My affair with it is endless. The future is something I do look forward to but not at the risk of letting go of the past. Coward twit, maybe.

The music flowing in my ears is fresh and hopeful. Songs sung by a junior from school. I love them and hope he sings like this forever and that his music reaches out to as many people as possible. They drip of honesty and warmth. I can imagine myself feeling the soft green grass at my feet as I thrust myself on a swing, under an early spring sun that sparkles through the thick foliage of a great big tree, in an open lonely silent field.

There is a strange heaviness in the air. Its been there all day. A melancholic stillness that is turning stale and lifeless. Maybe the spark of the sun will rejuvenate its spirit. The colour of tomorrow might resurrect it. I hope it does cause its seeping in and spreading despair.

Another stage is calling on to me. It will certainly not be the last. I will light it with all my love. Its a play I love. It has actors I love more. It shall be a communion of honesty, something that seems to have shrouded in veils of duplicity and cozenage. But thats true of a lot of facets of life. Theatre, still remains the only place where one can speak the truth in its crass and stripped form. Its another matter altogether that only a few indulge in this heroism. And those who do, have a path of shattered glass laid before them. Scarred and blood-stained, they continue. Its what they live for.

Its so difficult to explain oneself to others. Not as a justification of actions, but just to be able to word and articulate the surge of emotions that arises and drowns one. There surfaces, on certain occasions, a desire for the other to be able to hear one's beat, feel one's pulse and sense the mood and give a i-know-what-you-are-going -through nod. I have given the nod to many this week. Its time I got one too.

Paint that hollow window pane.

Let it show what you wish to see.

Keep gazing at it till it comes to life.

It will.

Just wait.