I believe that there are two types of people in this world, one who are content with the answers and ones who are disturbed by the questions. While the former scare me with their ignorance and innocence the latter scares me with their curiosity and knowledge. I wonder if there is any midway? Has the palette ever tasted grey or is it only the artist’s illusion?
Somehow as I lie in the dead silent arms of darkness I feel distant from this world. I feel distant from him. We are still together but no longer close. We have million things on mind but nothing finds its way to the tongue. And when it does, we are more sarcastic and less soft. We think more about what we were and less about what we can be. The past seems a dream and future a nightmare. We speak less and stare more at the ceiling of our respective rooms. I can feel that disturbing silence, which now prevails between us every time we try to talk, within me. I wonder if it’s the one that exists before the war or the one that steps in after the destruction of all. I can hear the noise produced by the clashing of the storm wind with my closed window. Somehow this battle, ironically revives a very contrasting memory of a spring evening.
I always thought that life was ironical but it seems more like a paradox to me lately. I guess we are too busy to unravel these truths so we overlook them. It doesn’t just contradict our anticipation and understanding but life contradicts itself. It’s beyond logic and reasoning. And I guess this is what makes it so hard for us to accept life. Human understanding can’t fathom the depth of HIS intellectualism. Somehow accepting is synonymous to surrendering in our minds. And letting go is to giving up. Oh a misfortune!
That day was bright and lovely, the breeze was subtle and serene. It was kind to the buds and soft to the maiden’s hair. It’s the music to which the fresh leaves dance and the coolness in which the widow finds solace. Somehow I feel the same on the inside now. I remember the walk in that orphaned road. Forsaken, wild and uncared for. But then there was a beauty in there that no words can do justice to. I had lost my way but found and embarked on a new journey that day. It was a walk of realizations and discoveries. The nature soothes you in a way that no world can ever offer to. I see a part of my creator in it. It maintained a purity that the human race managed to lose. Back then, there was no war but also no peace within me. Things were not messy but then nothing seemed to have any order. There was no wound but I had an ache. There was no sin but I needed the salvation!
On that dusty rustic road, as I was contemplating life, I remembered my too old yet recent encounter with a stormy wind, much like the one evolving outside. As I feel the force with which it is banging against my window to come in and create turmoil in my calm room I understand its desperation and helplessness and frustration. I had felt this useless anger and energy which made me jealous of any other calm thing in my surrounding. I wanted to see the chaos within me in the world around me. The contrast frustrated me. As I hear the thunderstorm I am reminded of the way I had screamed and groaned to fight against the odds to get the things done in my way not HIS way. As I hear the empty echoes of the wind I can feel the way I had wailed as I fought my fate. As I hear the babe scared by the peals cry and the trees falling in its atrocities, I am painfully reminded of the aggression I had befriended. Life is a battle and you fight to live it your way, is this not what we were always taught?!
Life is sarcastic in it’s own subtle way. As I felt the soft breeze play with my hair I suddenly shuddered to think that this was the same wind that can also be so wild and blinded. It can be notoriously harsh and sinfully destructive. I have heard that life is a circle but lately I believe it to be more like a coil. You do move in circle but the loop is never the same. You always, something do learn, but never in the same way and never the same thing. Oh such are HIS marvels!
Somehow I see life is more wild and unorganized than the outgrown weeds that crawled in that road of one fine spring evening. There was something in that subtle and cool breeze that I felt connected to my Father. There was this divine understanding that the setting sun left me with, for which I have no explanation. The buds were still struggling to find their beauty but I had discovered mine. There is a beauty in every piece of wisdom that you are entitled to quite a many but rare times in your life.
As the roaring winds call out for my attention, I now see it in a different light. I know the Storm had to go. It can’t go on forever. Nothing has the access to unlimited power. The strength would die off. And finally the destruction would dawn upon the meek and exhausted world. All would pay the toll for the uncalled anger of one. How unfair?! The wind needs to surrender and it will. With time the buds will replace the uprooted trees. Hands will make up the blown away houses. Ships will set on the sea again and no plane will come crashing down. I learnt that I have to surrender to HIS plans. I know the trick is to accept and wait. Sometimes the strength is measured not by how hard and adamantly you can hold on to something but how softly and peacefully you can let go the same.
As I get up from my bed and open the window I see how the ruthless wind sets my paper in a Brownian motion and fills my room with it’s anger and resentment. But then I know soon, like my tale, it would too learn to surrender and accept. It’s striving and struggling to teach nature it’s way but soon it will be weakened and exhausted and nature would teach the vulnerable it’s own way. I had learnt it and so will it but then so will him! He is the storm that has engendered turbulence and havoc in my life but I know there shall be spring too. I can feel his tears of frustration as I hear the heaven finally break down and I can remember mine. The rain and storm are bad but the winter is worse. Winter is grey.
So, I guess maybe grey does exist then. Grey is the transience, the change from black to white. For my lover it shall be as cold and ruthless and lonely as a good and patient winter can be. But then do I want him to be alone? Winter is the way from death to a new life. It’s so barren and hopeless. It’s dry and directionless. But he will wait for the spring, right? Oh I hope he does and I know he would. I have survived my one out of yet many to come winters and soon he would his. And then we shall rejoice in his spring rejuvenated for riding through the remaining loops.
A shiver due to this new born coolness snatched me from my never-ending thoughts; so now as I move to close the window and prevent the wind from pushing the rain inside my room I know exactly what I want to do- wait.