Shades of winter in a spoonful of vision

Very few things in life are as dear as loneliness. It is not a feeling, but a blanket; or maybe a fitted coat
we live in, that hangs to the skin like a pet adored. When I sit by the window, I draw patterns with my
fingers, cutting through the damp, foggy gloom. This pet of mine stares at me and my deplorable little
artwork with a pitiful eye, gently digging the emotions out of my apparent expressionless eyes, and
wiping away the pain that gently flows within. On other days, it follows me. Close to the heels, across
the streets on chilly mornings, settling like snow or rain on heaved shoulders- spreading like dark,
blotted ink.

Or suddenly it floods an entire room with warm, golden sunlight. So intense, that it blinds the eyes,
making delicate, green leaves quiver with the warmth of its touch. It breathes life into cold, shadowy
corners. Soon it whispers in a kind, hushed voice, “I am here”. You look around and realize that
loneliness has always been with you, playing like a child with soft, gentle steps while wandering in
delight, making the most out of a tranquil winter afternoon. As joy spreads its warm, pulsating colours
and life feels full to the brim, one asks, “For what is loneliness, but the other side of solitude?”

Of departures and times lost

Among those which boast of having wings, there’s time. Its flight is said to be the determiner of
movement, of change, of departures and arrivals. Certain humans jump on to the running train of time
with ease, while others struggle to find a footing against the current. Growing up invites disapproval;
crying over unfriendly hours is what children do. Men, or, women, do not cry. So what if your waking or
“working” hours are desolate and non-functional? Nobody cares. So where do all the early years of
shocks, hurt, revelations, disillusionment and trauma land us? Into adulthood, of course. Where
achievement is arrived at after being ten feet deep in sure disaster. Titles, designations and applauds are
ill-fitted robes, borrowed clothes and bitter dregs of years passed in harmony. Time flies like contrasting
scenes in thriller movies where deafening silence and sound, chaos and complete tranquility are
juxtaposed within seconds, to give a semblance of unrest. Peace, at this point, seems decadent; like
smell of old, wearing furniture, laden with a thick layer of dust, wincing at the morning sunlight.

Mornings now are remains of a shell-shocked soldier’s life. Alternating light-and-darkness confuse us;
birds seem to chirp in Greek while panic creeps into the gut like a small iron ball, heaving down the
spirits like a grim, cloudy sky. We carry on, squinting at the sky, hoping for a chance of light, burying our
hands into our coat-pockets and turning up our collars to the rain that digs its needles in vain into our
stubborn, weather-beaten skins.

7 janvier, 2015 ( Written after the Paris attacks)

Last night's playlist on repeat mode;

Even though the sun has risen on the city,

Hangover and a glass half-empty

Lay next to a bed, empty and undone.

Guitar chords and a dreamy, crackling voice on the radio

A certain tug at the heartstrings, and dreams

Which run free and wild on rain-swept highways,

Chased by the blinding lights of blurry visions.

Colours change, shedding skins of hours past

Amidst the desolation of cobblestoned streets

And fluttery violets in nooks of white mansions,

Swayed by the downward rush of quiet cyclists.

Night falls in the City of Dreams,

Yet no one is in the mood for love.

Between the storm outside and the steam

Of café noir, slumber fades and loses to reality.

Tempests
Rough waves never held silence between them.

They loved fiercely, blindly and boldly,

Gripping the shores helplessly as they lost restraint,

Falling like armies on shifting lands,

Crashing with force where life lay still.

Calm seas never made a good sailor,

Is that why we never die?

Fluttering against the grey skies like tattered sails,

Threatened with oblivion by tempests unknown...

Which is why they're grains of sands, and not pillars

That rescue us all this while.

Love, like the ocean without an end,

Fires, that never saw the face of darkness,

Night skies that glimmered with hope and tranquility,

The world holds on to thee, till its dying breath.

-Dipanjana Das