A little bit of sunshine, a little bit of cloud, a little bit of candlelight, a little bit of care. Or perhaps a little flower, with a little bit of smile. The mind sits at the door, eyeing the path, which leads nowhere. She has stopped coming long back. The cornfields turn into hay and sweaty farmers tow them away. The frog has ceased to croak and the rains have turned into rainbows. Enid Blyton has stopped writing and the movies aren’t good either. Where do I go with my childhood, whose bosom should I seek?
My grandma used to tell me that the moon is the home of a lonely old woman who spins away yarns of dreams. She used to tell me that stars are angels who watch upon us. One day one such angel dropped a tear, which fell into the ocean. A kind oyster chanced upon it and hid it in its bosom. And slowly with the tides of salty time it turned into a pearl. My existence is not that beautiful. My tear is not precious.
Perhaps it’s a stupid thought; perhaps it’s just plain loneliness. But after a year of parched sunrises and hollow sunsets, I feel it’s time to look inwards.
My grandma used to tell me that the moon is the home of a lonely old woman who spins away yarns of dreams. She used to tell me that stars are angels who watch upon us. One day one such angel dropped a tear, which fell into the ocean. A kind oyster chanced upon it and hid it in its bosom. And slowly with the tides of salty time it turned into a pearl. My existence is not that beautiful. My tear is not precious.
Perhaps it’s a stupid thought; perhaps it’s just plain loneliness. But after a year of parched sunrises and hollow sunsets, I feel it’s time to look inwards.
Happy New Year :)
