You know,
it was too hot yesterday,
I said to myself, this too shall pass.

Today, it rained.
I sat in the room with their glass windows,
of thier own beauty, a little alien one,
shut from inside,
listening the rain.
Somehow, the glass couldn’t stop
the whistle in the wind,
and the gossip, drip-drop-drip.

The wind came in waves,
carrying the rain,
and cleaned the dust off the windows.

When my rationale told me
that the waves were tired to wet the carpet,
I opened the windows
to smell the tiny floating droplets,
my nostrils and my lungs had been thirsty.

I told her, “please” show (him) some rain,
we have technology for that now,
to almost send the rain to anyone.
The scenes are reproduced,
but are the seers?
The texts bounce back and forth,
the words are sent,
but are the messages?

I wish I could talk in silence,
and you could hear, and listen.
Communication is sweet, I faintly remember,
maybe I once tasted it.

Now, only when some ragas dance,
I listen to myself.
And I feel heard, understood.
Should I feel sorry or thankful?

The things I said, about how a soulmate would be,
I wasn’t but now I am surprised,
why would anyone say so when fifteen?
What would soul mean and what a soulmate!
I remember my friends,
looking at me like I was an alien.

In two years, I will be 27, hopefully.
There’s a decade to live in between.
Death comes every now and then,
each time taking something away,
just like the rain does.
What if someday, I will have nothing left
to sacrifice to the god of death?
Nothing, other than myself.
Would someone still love a dead self?
Would you?

Why do I love death so much?
As much as life…
When the dogs bark,
I am happy of the death,
happening inside me.
Creation is beautiful,
because it’s ephemeral.
Creation dies, creativity lives.
And so I die.
But life and death, are immortal.

When the night breathes, the day dies.
See, in this pitch black night, day looks an absolute myth.
Death sounds a myth too, I know.

Maybe the night is the soul of the day,
the day is the soul of the night.
Maybe death is the soul of life,
and life, the soul of death.
…
the soul that keeps things in this beautiful motion…

Maybe the day and the night smile at each other in the dusk,
or bow down and share some words in the dawn,
Is it why the dusk and the dawns are special?
Maybe life and death mystically talk in silence.
Maybe that’s why silence is magical.

Last Updated: Saturday, 7 Mar, 2020 20:40:04 NPT
Author: Madhav Humagain (scimad)