I always want to trip over roses, yet I usually stand aside to count the thorns, isn’t that the subtle art of living?
Time and again, I slither through the verses of Endymion, a poem by John Keats,
“a thing of beauty is a joy forever…..”
Indeed! A thing of beauty is a joy forever, but what if the thing of beauty is forever?
Whenever I travel alone, I remember the nights drenched with rain and love, the silent streets giving space to dry leaves which crumpled as mom and I celebrated the moonlight, whenever I return home, I rub my hands against the pages of the books; they always smell fresh, the books gifted to me by grandfather long before his embodiment as a star.
I felt sad about leaving behind people who have given me millions of something, leaving behind places where I have a feeling of belongingness; nobody likes to play around with constants, only variables encourage, soon I realized the beauty of the collections; inside pages and my heart.
Words under the moon and melodies under the stars, paper cups and spilled coffee, lampposts and footpaths, yellow tables and green chairs, fireflies and waters of the canal, drenched bodies and whirling hair, long lost rains and floating clouds, salt and sugar, silence and people around, so much of lost and gained at the same time.