Tranquility
There was that special smell in the air, the smell of imminent rain. I sucked in the air and let the smell wash all over me, letting my head swell with the fresh perfume present in every breath. I could feel the elixir of nature flowing through my body. I love such evenings, perfect for walking along the river, wrapped in a light shawl, hands in your pockets and grey thoughts in your head. Think, think, think; think about nothing in particular but everything in general. Let the cool wind seep into your pores and imagine its footsteps tiptoeing through your mind. What stories does the wind carry? Which people has it touched? How many lands has it passed? What trees have purred to its gentle cooing?
Everything is steel grey in color. The clouds are low but distant in their huddled masses. People hurry home, rushing to their little holes. Why have you become like this? When was the last time you walked with the innocent glee of a child in falling rain? When did you last open your mouth and playfully let the rain drops wash your tongue?
You run away from nature, your mother and ancient cradle. You no longer stand still to rock to her gentle rhythm. You no longer wait to listen to her faint heartbeat. Your life now moves to the insistent beat of the modern machine. Wake up, run, sit, eat, run and sleep. A useless circle of universal uniformity.
But did you notice? There are still some flowers (you trample) on the edge of the sidewalk outside your office door. Take a look at them tomorrow and share their obvious sadness at a world lost in its egoistic roar. There are still some birds (you ignore) calling out for you from outside the window. Open it and listen to the stories they tell of golden days bygone when man and animal were equal. There are still some trees (you overlook) sheltering the last remnants of life on the edge. Stand under them and hear the tales they narrate with the soulful lilt of their swaying branches.
The old days have come to pass, I know, brushing away nostalgic dreamers like me into the dustbins of history.
Everything is steel grey in color. The clouds are low but distant in their huddled masses. People hurry home, rushing to their little holes. Why have you become like this? When was the last time you walked with the innocent glee of a child in falling rain? When did you last open your mouth and playfully let the rain drops wash your tongue?
You run away from nature, your mother and ancient cradle. You no longer stand still to rock to her gentle rhythm. You no longer wait to listen to her faint heartbeat. Your life now moves to the insistent beat of the modern machine. Wake up, run, sit, eat, run and sleep. A useless circle of universal uniformity.
But did you notice? There are still some flowers (you trample) on the edge of the sidewalk outside your office door. Take a look at them tomorrow and share their obvious sadness at a world lost in its egoistic roar. There are still some birds (you ignore) calling out for you from outside the window. Open it and listen to the stories they tell of golden days bygone when man and animal were equal. There are still some trees (you overlook) sheltering the last remnants of life on the edge. Stand under them and hear the tales they narrate with the soulful lilt of their swaying branches.
The old days have come to pass, I know, brushing away nostalgic dreamers like me into the dustbins of history.
Selected by Anil |
11:05 |
1 Comments:
hmm, yes from the dustbin of urs, u rise up to pen a tale of tranquil living. I love the idea of a river walk.
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