Nicholas Sparks and the Ocean

Some days are too short..not even enough to remember the name of a particular character in a random old movie. The day ends and you remember the name only the next day early morn.

Some places gift you happiness for all times. Some leave you with nothing but nostalgia. A place that you love to live in has a past longer than yours. It gets hard to believe that the place you left has somewhere left somebody in despair and bitterness.

Stories that are too good to be true are seldom true. Other times they are simply beautifully told and artificially accepted.

Some people are too special to be with. Their presence in a lifetime is limited and after a while, either the person turns unamusing (yet too special) in one way or the other or simply walks out of your life.

There is this being who wants to be able to read music…the magical grapheme...aaaand its me.

There is this beach and a bench on the shore. A person would sit on it and read Nicholas Sparks. I will be that person.

There is this song..Spanish song which plays at the back of my head for all times..i don’t know its meaning…and so I give it a meaning of my own. And I listen to the lyrics which I want to listen at the moment. I listen to my own tune and there are a few who listen to my silence.

There is this empty dark street having a pale street light shimmering at a distant pole. It slightly illuminates the face that smiles at somebody. I am that somebody.

Some days are too long to end. It takes a lot to finish thinking about nostalgic places, beautiful stories and special people. It takes a lot to finish chores and seek a sound sleep.

There is this balcony where I stand. I hold the railing and stare at crescent. Simply stare and continue with that. 

Cottage: The one in Woods

It was a new place for her. The new town furnished with green air and humbleness in abundance. She wiped her past in her pinafore and worked as a maid in that cottage. Through the little window in her workplace, she made it possible to perceive a portion of people’s life whenever someone passed by.

There was a bridge on the way to the cottage. The one she never got slightest of opportunity to cross. A brook flowed under this very bridge, the quaintness of which was so appealing the passengers were compelled not to cross the bridge without pausing for the moment. This very moment the brook helped her see the very image of their being. 

An old man passes by the bridge every day. He sees sunshine when he leans to penetrate through the depths of flowing water. He was a widower with no children left to take care of. He sees sunshine because that is the way he feels walking back home after spending a long day at orphanage with children keenly listening and applauding his stories. 

A young boy passes by the bridge every day. The brook, as soon as she sees him, gears up. The boy then throws a pebble down the bridge in a way nuclear bombs are bombarded in world wars. In the most artistic way possible, fine and concentric ripples are formed. The brook gets an equally artistic smile on the face of the boy.

A sister from the Baptist church passes by the bridge every day. She bends down to see the face of brook which hustles in a way psalms are chanted.

These people had somewhere occupied a place in that girl’s daily life. Besides, the girl waited for someone else. The person seemed to exist not in the proximity of her conscience. A person to who even the brook did not answer.

Even he passed by the bridge every day. To him, perhaps, the brook spoke of nihility. Neither did the water whine nor did it grizzle, but simply flowed.

All she did was waited near the window each day for him to come, each day for him to come and the brook to answer to his questions or rather her questions.

P.S.: There are numerous facets of life. One fine day, try out living without experiencing a particular one.