6 Feb 2014

A Long Night

I see him, in ways he does and does not want me to. I picture his exhausted limbs sprawled across his unkempt bed. Sometimes, I can creep closer and see the day's worries slowly drain away from his face and seep into the creases of his pillow. I wonder if his nights are filled with the same nostalgia that tends to linger in my room. Do his ears deliberately mistake the night sounds for my footsteps? Is he able to recall the sound of our mingled breaths and the silent tickling tantrums of our tangled bodies? Can I?

The feeling of his presence is something which I cannot completely forget, nor recall. It is this wild, hazy passion, swirling crimson inside a bubble, floating right in the corner of my view and always out of focus. I have loved him only between shadowy glimpses and the mechanic buzz of his voice on the phone. I have created him, piece by piece, in those weary moments of crowded solitude when the beauty of this world feels incomplete without him by my side.

I have watched him fade away into a void. There are times when I wonder if he is pushing himself away or being pulled back into a space that does not include me. As if the answer might help me forge a chain to reclaim his lost soul. But then, I do not own him. He is not mine to reclaim.

We are lost in this sea and the currents of the world are indifferent and unstoppable. The clock's hands sometimes wave a sad goodbye and other times, point out a reluctant beginning. The clicks of the keyboard and the scrolls on the phone's screen is all that binds me to him. The once unbearable tug at my heart is faint and more relaxed now. But the relief is tinged with a sort of emptiness.

Sometimes, it is reluctance. Sometimes, it is nostalgia. Sometimes, it is the irrational urge to scream and right the wrongs on both sides. Sometimes, it is guilt. Sometimes, it is anger. But most of the times, it is an overwhelming wave of questions coupled with a reluctance to understand the answers.

And it is always a very long night.


Source



P.S. - Earlier, I used to think in poetic verses. Now, I think in prose. I guess, I am more adaptive than I know. I hope you enjoyed reading this, it is one of my better pieces. :)

9 comments:

  1. Those middle of the night thoughts can be the best and the worst all at once..but they always keep you up..nice piece of prose...

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    1. They do, always tugging at the back of your consciousness. Thanks for stopping by. :)

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  2. And these questions reappear night after night and the answers fade into the void!

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    1. Sometimes, the answers aren't even there.

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  3. Yes, this is a blend of poetry and prose...You could have expressed the same thoughts through verses, but I guess I am glad you did it through a well-narrated prose....my skills in deciphering poems are pretty threadbare :/


    ~Ritesh

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    1. Sometimes, I cannot decipher my own poetry, hahaha. It doesn't help when the poet twists the idea in beautiful, poetic way, but it ends up being hazy ad incomprehensible for the reader. So yes, I am inclined towards prose.

      Thank you for stopping by. :)

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  4. Enigma, you had me on this one. Some lines are suffocatingly beautiful. The ones in which you use the magic of irony. The feeling of his presence is something which you cannot completely forget, nor recall. Or when you wonder if he is pushing himself away or being pulled back into a space that does not include you.

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    1. I am so happy that you decided to stop by and read one of my posts. And yes, this is quite a special one, brutally honest at that, written in order to peel away the layer that holds all such thoughts inside and flush them all out. Nonetheless, it makes me so glad that you liked it. :)

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Unless my thoughts fickle turned your brain into pickle, I'd love to hear if my words found your funny bone to tickle.

Or sparked a chain of thoughts. Even if they did not, do stop by and say "Hi!". That would mean a lot.