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One hundred years...enough living perhaps

One hundred years…enough living perhaps

The past is dark. Dark is the color. But something dark has no color perhaps or is it the mixture of every color that has made it so dark, colorless- such that it doesn’t reflect any color. Can color – the crayons paint a painful picture? Well, the mixture of a lot of colors can make it ugly thing. Dark is vacant, hollow ultimately leading one to the moment of feelinglessness, beinglessness. How much is it important to feel something in its own true essence?

I feel like an old tree. That has survived for lets say hundred years. Have been through so much of sunshine, colorful leaves, ripen fruits and old branches. I love the birds that come and shelter within me. I look at them and smile. Their love makes me to turn my cold branches into green, blue, yellow, red and pink. I become band of seven colors with smelling flowers blooming over the thousand branches of mine. Everywhere there is bloom- Well, this is spring. Everything matches with every other thing.

Then, these birds fly away. Leaving their nest empty. Vacant part above me hurts me like anything. I weep in silence and the sky competes with me. It shows me more anger in the form of thunder, storm and rain. Makes me wet, makes me cold, tries to remove away the nest, fills the nest with water. Immediately after, Sun comes to punish me for the sin that I commit for loving the birds as I am not supposed to love any birds. Because love is an illusion, the Sun says. Almost burning me with the heat, sun dries me up, dries the leaves, flowers and the ripen fruits- they fall in the ground and die. Ripen fruits : They are the ripen dreams that fall and die when it is becomes most fit to be recognized.

Another group of birds come. Season of love comes again. Another branch is occupied. I feel happy. I look at them. Fall in love with them again. I try to bloom at my best this time for making their abode wonderful and attractive. I grow fruits for them, their children. I fall in love again. I try to forget the past, look at them and enjoy with the feeling that they are permanent part of mine. With their wings, I imagine myself of flying high and high with their dreams I ponder…Wow, I feel. They come back to their nest every time they leave.

I have a tender heart. I wake up to see another vacant nest in my branch. The hollowness prevails. And I turn stoic. I don’t feel an urge to cry and yell out to the silent sky nor do I try to feel anything. No drops of rain can make me feel cold or the rays of sun make me feel hot… I can’t move out and hug another tree like me and weep in the shoulder.

I turn around and see many patches of the nest that are vacant.  can’t remove – I don’t have hands, rain can’t wash it off, sun can’t burn it on -the burden of nest goes with me or hundreds years.  try to become indifferent, I try not to bloom any flowers next time but cycle continues…coming and going has become so much integral part of my existence..but the nests remain as the wounds that can rarely be healed…rarely the vacant will be filled….!!!


4 Responses

  1. I flew with your words 🙂

  2. 🙂 🙂 That sounds cool 🙂

  3. This is ta completely different. I became the tree while reading it… So damn good piece of writing. You have an amazingly beautiful imagination 🙂

  4. May be thats where lies the success of this blog post 🙂

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