Just the other night as i sat by the huge window, my old bed side lamp giving away a depressive dim light to make the dull maroon sheets on my bed a little feminity, the darkness outside seemed so much more calm than the day before, and the day before that. The breeze that blew by reminded me of lullabies my grandmother sang to me on summer nights. There was so much resemblence with the all that the night had to whisper, with my childhood. As i gazed into the floating clouds i heard an owl's cry. I peeped out of my window to figure out the direction it came from but in vain. It was just one cry and everything was silent. One cry which felt like an ongoing turmoil around everything. The immediate abrupt silence reminded me of my of my mother sitting on her huge rocking chair reciting aloud ''The Owl'' by Edward Thomas to her students. A war poem which talks about a runaway soldier, a poem which has dug in deep in my mind. I have seen my mother teach the verse again and again, year after year, to many a student.
A drop of tear trickled down the unworthy lines on my face.
A strange emptiness filled up my room, a vagueness in the pictured that stay stuck to my wall.
The bed side lamp seems to have grown so much more dim than the last time i had looked at it. The maroon sheets no more looked as feminine.
A questionable belief on the everyday trust on the man sitting above.
A rare insight of the 'myself' i prefer not to look into.
A little prayer unsaid, a little grief covered up with the sands of time and a little wish buried under compulsion.
