To Vastitude, To Insignificance 



  The only peace, now a days, for me, is the clear cerulean sky, often proffering a shy dance of stray white clouds, and the sunshine which brightens days unconditionally. And this creates a semblance of the world I could live in & feel, somehow, intimate about. The sleet like lonely darkness thriving in me appears less poignant. Moreover, I feel relatively small when I’m underneath the open sky. It feels good to be a tiny ignorable particle. Because, in my heart, I feel too significant too vivid with this ceaseless nameless grief which has become an unkind resident of my soul. It floods everything without revealing where its true roots exist. I can’t fathom where to look to have these roots pulled out for they’re everywhere, myriad & so much. The open clear sky tells me that her spread is far more generous, perilously generous, & she’s got far more to hold, to endure & then to maintain a nonchalance about it. I whisper to myself, I’m, comparatively, better off. I, selfishly, feel restored for some moments because of this comparison.. Here’s to the sky …

(Rest in peace my beloved mother | 24.12.2015)


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