Being on the eleventh floor and enjoying the perks it has to offer, is not always a thing that can be savoured or written home about.. but today somehow, it is.
For the better part of this year about to wrap up, we have lived on the topmost floor of our mediocre levels of loftiness and this week with the winter fog and the Pournami moon, it has been a playful scenery that I peep out at.
The mornings, when I wake up really early to get going on the day's chores, the fog stretching across the tree filled landscape eases my grip.
The chill and the slow, teasing, warm sun's rays are all that I need to make me forgetful of the shroud of indifference that I strive to keep primly wrapped around my shoulders all day.
In the evenings or the nights that I reach home around twilight, dour faced and headache in tow, the lights from the boxes that we call homes, bright, dizzying displays, proof of man's inherent greed for the new and shiny wink at me from all around and even at a distance.
After a while though, when the weariness begins to fade and the world around me begins to retire, when the fog starts to reclaim it's right to sheath, the boxes curve, the lights smoothen out and the bright satellite takes over.
The one that causes all the turbulence, in the oceans and me, the familiar one that children hear stories about, the waxy one that causes men to resort to poetry and a swift search for a consort, the very same one.
It travels from somewhere slightly above my eye level to above my head and then after I go to bed, it crosses the night sky from the east and north to the south and west.
As the evening passes by and it embarks on this journey, it brightens the room and becomes the sole illumination to an other wise dark ending of days, stopping strategically at angles on the floor whence somehow, tiresome vitrified flooring becomes a thing of surprising beauty.
The dance of this light across the floor, the breeze that is the entrée to the fog and the night that is the setting to all of these theatrics in the boxes we call homes, call out to the human in me, the one that can bear to sit and swing in the winter night and not run indoors to huddle in the warmth and reminds me of the one that could bear to stay out while dripping with strings of sweat on the summer nights. Those nights when I'd have the privilege of staying up with the grown ups and those on which the moon chose to lighten the clamminess and clear the clutter within the kid by the window.
Too timid the grown ups have now become and as hamsters all set to ace the wheel, we have become too unaware of what lies beyond the metal bars that frame our world view.
On a day such as today, when the mind melded in the mundane finds in the middle of the grid floor, the moonlight, the night redeems manyfold the day that ended and makes me ready to take on the dread of tomorrow.
To the new moon and the foggy night, here it is then, a token of thanks!
Namaste!
For the better part of this year about to wrap up, we have lived on the topmost floor of our mediocre levels of loftiness and this week with the winter fog and the Pournami moon, it has been a playful scenery that I peep out at.
The mornings, when I wake up really early to get going on the day's chores, the fog stretching across the tree filled landscape eases my grip.
The chill and the slow, teasing, warm sun's rays are all that I need to make me forgetful of the shroud of indifference that I strive to keep primly wrapped around my shoulders all day.
In the evenings or the nights that I reach home around twilight, dour faced and headache in tow, the lights from the boxes that we call homes, bright, dizzying displays, proof of man's inherent greed for the new and shiny wink at me from all around and even at a distance.
After a while though, when the weariness begins to fade and the world around me begins to retire, when the fog starts to reclaim it's right to sheath, the boxes curve, the lights smoothen out and the bright satellite takes over.
The one that causes all the turbulence, in the oceans and me, the familiar one that children hear stories about, the waxy one that causes men to resort to poetry and a swift search for a consort, the very same one.
It travels from somewhere slightly above my eye level to above my head and then after I go to bed, it crosses the night sky from the east and north to the south and west.
As the evening passes by and it embarks on this journey, it brightens the room and becomes the sole illumination to an other wise dark ending of days, stopping strategically at angles on the floor whence somehow, tiresome vitrified flooring becomes a thing of surprising beauty.
The dance of this light across the floor, the breeze that is the entrée to the fog and the night that is the setting to all of these theatrics in the boxes we call homes, call out to the human in me, the one that can bear to sit and swing in the winter night and not run indoors to huddle in the warmth and reminds me of the one that could bear to stay out while dripping with strings of sweat on the summer nights. Those nights when I'd have the privilege of staying up with the grown ups and those on which the moon chose to lighten the clamminess and clear the clutter within the kid by the window.
Too timid the grown ups have now become and as hamsters all set to ace the wheel, we have become too unaware of what lies beyond the metal bars that frame our world view.
On a day such as today, when the mind melded in the mundane finds in the middle of the grid floor, the moonlight, the night redeems manyfold the day that ended and makes me ready to take on the dread of tomorrow.
To the new moon and the foggy night, here it is then, a token of thanks!
Namaste!
No comments:
Post a Comment