Silences wait to be heard. To be read. To be plunged into, to get wet. They remain, and they appear. They change mundaneness into longings. Longings of reciprocation, of language, of an embrace just meant for you. You would find compositions in the air, in the fluttering breeze, conspiring to keep you awake to the magic and warm in the night. It is as if the day’s passengers have used up their space and passed by, leaving stories that haunt you, sounds that whisper to you, an existence that persists, as ripples left by an evening boat in the ocean that last the entire night.
Everything around, bathed in whitish celestial sacredness, stooped and sat in silent meditation, emanating communally a silence, ceremonious in parts, imperceptible by urban light in others. Trees, fences, mildly trembling waters, and roads writing the history of its dust. They all seemed touched upon by a higher sense of purpose, each dedicated in isolation, towards a common goal. The beauty of the night remains to be written. The composition must be perfect.
A Silence that was in between,
Was walls, was solid bricks keeping us apart,
In every which way,
And there I used to see you, I used to pack my heart with presents and set out.
My eyes would voyage through the silence and find you standing unawares. Uncaressed.
They used to find your heart hidden under the creases of down-turned eyes, and got used to waiting by your eyelashes.
The silence that kept very quiet. The silence that slept like a monster.
The silence that grained deep in the pauses when we spoke, and that never burst the tears in either of our eyes.
The silence that lacked the drama the eyes craved, my eyes. The silence that swallowed deep the smiles that spring promised.
It then, led us to the moment when we fell strong, and we felt the void tunnelled to the centre of two souls. Two imaginations. Two lives.
We fell strong. We fell like buildings cracking, collapsing in a quake.
Only there was no sound.