Its one thirty on a Sunday night and time for me to go to sleep. And yet the mind wanders; it chances upon a thought, pauses, examines, sets it free and then saunters off again. The heart does its own dance, playing with emotions as if they were colored balls to be juggled in the air. I can sense a slight chill in the air yet I dont want to wrap a quilt around me, I want instead to embrace the chill for it reminds me of something, it brings with it the scent of a memory. The memory itself I cannot trace, for it could very much be a dream, real nevertheless. For what is real after all? Is not what is there is our heart more real than the illusion we surround ourselves with?
I would like to go to sleep now, for my eyes are heavy and my notebook reminds me of the long week that lies ahead. Yet I cannot move from this moment, this stillness that has me rooted at this spot. I cannot call it a moment of peace, the cacophony of voices within me assures me of that. Moment of content it is neither, for nothing could be more discontent than the heart that silently loves and fumes. Yet it is a moment of truth; not the noble truth that a poet would describe, but the harsh, naked truth of a sunlight that restlessly intrudes into each inch of space and brings to view the dirt and the grime under the beauty.
Till when will this truth be present and hold off my sleep? When will the tranquilisers of daily life take over and do their grey duty?
They say silence is holy. Because it allows you to talk to the spirit within yourself, talk to God. And religion is, after all, the search for truth. Is this the sound of silence?
No comments:
Post a Comment