He who sleeps there knows that the cloudburst sheds beads of tears in reciprocation to his melancholy. He who sleeps there knows that the caelum doesn’t only mean the rising sun,the gold-baked moon or the lustre in the star. He who sleeps there knows that a whole isolated universe waits for him,an avenue of white roses.
There lies the headstone of romance, testament of amour, anemones of suppressed cold breath, catacomb of meditated swallowed pain.
How incredible it is that he vanishes before every spring and spectacularly reappears taking a rebirth from the dead leaf in every new autumn!
His art bewitches a lover’s soul. He is himself an ode to all the odes. He is all beauty. He is the omphalos of joy. He is love, and my solaced religion.
Would you stop by my house on a blizzard night? Would you bring your ukulele to serenade me? Would you decorate my eclipsing room with glowing candles? Would you walk into my lounge and sit by the hearth? Would you take me on your gondola to sail across the milky river? Would you hold a lantern to my face and gaze at me? Would you gently place a perfumed yellow tulip in my hair? Would you stroke a dove’s feather around my neck for a whole night?
I spent more than half of my day contemplating, absorbed and lost in the realms of beauty where happiness blooms lonely.Most thoughts are either imaginary and melded with fantasy that dissipates in the nadir of overwhelming fancies and some are just the fragments or the remnants of past which are exclusively unornamented.
I don’t think this is a pertinent introduction to what I am about to write.But,certainly the picture above speaks itself.It was clicked in my school back in class VIII then, experiencing the first thrills of early adolescence.
Here goes the bunch of ruffians with whom I burgeoned.Limpid madness, pretty shenanigans,wily tomfoolery dominated the air.More commonly known as”Bhombolazzz”(the official name of the group),we had been the heart-throbs.Now, there’s a funny association attached to the group’s name-the word ‘bhombol’ in Bengali means ‘nincompoop’ and we were in a humor to add a Tamil twist to it just to imitate the Malayalam accent of our Physics teacher.I know this seems absolutely ridiculous but then it was a super amusement for us.Weren’t we mischievous?
I laugh with moist eyes when I reminisce all these memories.But only my laughter echoes within the four walls and my shadow often mocks at my solitariness.I wanted us to be knitted together,I wanted us to age together,I never wanted us to be a part of each other’s memorabilia.Why couldn’t we remain the same? When was the irascibility, chronic dissatisfaction and displeasure born within us?Why did we all grow up so fast so as to become evanescent with time? When had the ego seasoned itself to vanquish love?How would I know that the people who painted my childhood with the most variegated pastels would leave me so soon? I had no idea then that the promises were kept to be broken just like the false staircase of sand which collapses.We stayed,yet lost somewhere, we exist in smithereens, not so glutinous to be affixed or clung to.Ignorance has towered itself so much compelling the humongous billow of love to be swallowed up by a stupefaction.Excuses come as camouflage for the sentiments of conscience.At this point of time, I want to travel a few steps back,I want to return.Reality certifies such a desire to be impossible,so I have chosen to live in delusion,the world which truly seems gifted with blessed euphoria.The friendship which once seemed like a vast boundless ocean is now superficial.We have always loved eachother,we still do but we have just let ourselves to be forgotten in the humdrum and fashion of life.
It’s gonna be superb!I am profusely excited.I am under adrenaline rush.Two months of relentless boisterous cheers, squeals of cries and laughter,and sobs of defeat.Plunging myself into the trenches of unimpeded enjoyment.