By Durdana Bhat
Listen to me. Here.
Am I present or absent? Languor present wanders around. This fired reality, all empty and now ash. Stand still! You can never have it, it is all distorted illusive false scene.
Walk to it, revolve around…
But there is just no sense of astray.
Enough!
Will you stop it? Tell me, where to put the soul, hour by hour? Don’t you know we are tender? Why to become all soul? The distorted realities play madness, weird though.
Alive or dead doesn’t matter, let’s be mad for now. Why all soul?
“Shall I answer the why? – To be the soul… you choose it, I saw it. To be the soul what you called me the ghost, I am? To see the faces passed by, without faces, without life doesn’t matter… What matter is, would you call that madness life?”
Already answered!
Remember the day, when only a memory of summer went by, autumn suspended it- again. That was beautiful good-bye, as if the boundaries, patterns and whole geometry turned September. The silent wind took away the shroud promises. Leaving through, all life, settling onto the unknown, which remembered and lived summer.
From the attic- Those sleepy eyes, a shivering expression and what appeared outside was half bare. The night turned to be tormented by the thoughts that lingered around… Well, that mentation was the explanations of the madness- sarcastic smile and no consideration of that fact when autumn couldn’t accept the wind, which shattered the grip of memory, last song and meaning.
Towards the edge it was blowing, the night raving and it was eighteen of September.
There was a wakeless silence around the landscape, and this heart was not at peace. The tale was too devastated that it never could stand on the promises, what remained were the unfinished last pages and the dry leaves.
These moths should cry open; perhaps it is a medicine that will cure their soul.
That paralyzing fear gets in the way and stops. Be careless as for I have no feeling, within this head or within my heart what rushes out I hardly know.
But you know what? People are afraid to admit that they don’t know why they feel love. And this mystery frightens them- will separate them into bits then in pieces.
Then, what comes is the realization that there is no control left- the loss of control. The wind at night doesn’t exist in the day time, it is much cold, it blows with different sound.
I am that wind and my life is burning an invisible flame.
What’s the truth and what is a lie? I don’t know! I just close my eyes to it.
I hate to be the wind, blowing- rustling the leaves up. I hate to be the autumn, playing ode to the joy, and the gust of wind playing through the wailing flute. I disrupted harmony! I don’t have the guts to live through this wave. Thought, it will be soon over but the promises I whispered I know will die in within me.
Why am I afraid? I am just trying to get home after dark. Tell me what brings on the storm? Is it the stillness in the air or inside?
The fragments of the world in my head, I lose my sense to it. It always proved to be bleak.
But still, I lived and loved.
