Water flows through creeks and crevices of withered mountains when it rains over their pride ridden heads.
Heads, as they say, are meant to be held high; necks, as we have seen, break under the curse of ego sometimes.
In the end, if you don’t step over this grandeur and pay courtesy to love, a weak neck will make you fall into it someday.
Such are the tales of love gone rogue.
Such are the tales of life.
In life, we wander; we walk through the fields, we smile through the hearts, we fly through the skies and we swim through the waters; regardless, we wander.
Our skin hides behind rags; we sleep on dirt, under the dirt. We wash faces with the stream of our own tears, we feed on abandoned hearts and we gather memories; hand-picking charms and feathers on our way to nowhere.
Nowhere… is a place. An empty void, hanging somewhere in the middle of the air. It has walls, they are dark; so dark that they surpass the physical possibilities of darkness; so dark that they are mere shadows.
Nowhere… is a halt. A refuge away from the dank fluidity into the deserted narrow lanes of random oil strokes; the strokes are sharp; they stab sometimes and you may fall, but you will fall into nothing but comfort.
Journeys are like stories, and your footprints are like splattered ink, left behind by a broken nib. The writer, though, is fate; and it’s no less of a clown who knows magic.
You are the reader, more of a dazed one. You follow the plot, and by each passing metaphor, you age.
But… it is not before the evening that you begin to see your clown’s folly.
It is not before the evening that you have read these metaphors well enough to spot when they repeat.
By the night, though, all of it makes sense to you-
You were going around in circles.
You were running around like a lost child, looking for her mother.
Alas, you would only find yourself at the same place at the end of each hour.
Because… that place, in the middle of this huge endless crowd, was the last place where this world felt safe to you.
That was the last time when you held your mother’s hand, and each time you get closer to this tiny piece of land, the feeling of ‘being home’ washes all your exhaustion away.
But… Do you ever reach home?
Hiraeth brings along a sense of unquenchable insanity, and you have no choice but to drown!
“Hiraeth- a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past”
– Gauri Walecha