I left things behind, her gleaming photographs, her scarf, a thick papery wisdom which she once lent me and then never took it back, a basket of her memories and a heart that had cried for her. So, to relish and fall in love with the slippery silence of mountains, singing of anonymous birds, smell, sap and individuality of each pine and oak tree, sharp edged old rocks, fluffy sheet of pearly clouds. I will confine in them, I had thought.
Life is surreal but even in new places, we find a similarity, we are familiar. Just, like I sense a conversancy with the curved tracks, with the season of shiver on the hills, with the rook of an official tourist guide, with the hum of wind and with the gloom and murk of the mountains and still how they look majestic with lighted homes, unevenly distributed on the slopes, wide, vast flare, asymmetrical yet beautiful in the black.
Something on the top of the farthest hill, a source of light we see, may be a home of a familiar stranger. How amazing life would that person have, said Asish and we gazed in silence, eyes wide open to scoop out. I wonder, who, so different from his compatriot, who much in love, would have been living there, where sky kisses the forehead of a mountain. How romantic home would that be.
We return back to our hotel. And while I was trying to comfort and warm my shivering, skinny body, I think of our moments of intimacy, when we uttered nothing, shared and talked with eyes, with heart and mind, our body melted as one, speaking just in thoughts, similar thoughts.
I still feel the same even when she is far away, not in touch, no letters and no calls. Her thoughts poise me. And still, we brilliantly talk, share and cuddle, just in thoughts.
The vehicle of my conscience never lets me confine in these few years, from the birth to death.
I might have left the things which I can touch and see, but how do I separate what I feel?
Life is surreal but even in new places, we find a similarity, we are familiar. Just, like I sense a conversancy with the curved tracks, with the season of shiver on the hills, with the rook of an official tourist guide, with the hum of wind and with the gloom and murk of the mountains and still how they look majestic with lighted homes, unevenly distributed on the slopes, wide, vast flare, asymmetrical yet beautiful in the black.
Something on the top of the farthest hill, a source of light we see, may be a home of a familiar stranger. How amazing life would that person have, said Asish and we gazed in silence, eyes wide open to scoop out. I wonder, who, so different from his compatriot, who much in love, would have been living there, where sky kisses the forehead of a mountain. How romantic home would that be.
We return back to our hotel. And while I was trying to comfort and warm my shivering, skinny body, I think of our moments of intimacy, when we uttered nothing, shared and talked with eyes, with heart and mind, our body melted as one, speaking just in thoughts, similar thoughts.
I still feel the same even when she is far away, not in touch, no letters and no calls. Her thoughts poise me. And still, we brilliantly talk, share and cuddle, just in thoughts.
The vehicle of my conscience never lets me confine in these few years, from the birth to death.
I might have left the things which I can touch and see, but how do I separate what I feel?
