2.46 AM

my mind is coaxed awake from a particularly long train of thought, not yet asleep not fully awake, it seems as if sweet dreams were being brought

because I woke up after a million years—my soul floating up to the stars—my lips forming contentment in all it’s lazy luxuriant glory,

my hair soft—after ages in the sun—healing in the shade of night—my eyes heavy with the weight of your dreams and my senses are filled to the brim

my eyes are closing—i’m floating back down into sleep’s folding embrace and my mind is full of your soft peach lips and your sun warmed skin and your raven hair thick and curling between my fingers,

and I’m back again in your deep blue room and wind blown white curtains, your tumbling pile of books your unmade bed where your lips touched mine for the first time, your stack of records and films strewn around without a care because—because I’m full of you, you with your well-worn shorts and laughter bouncing off the walls, the evening sunlight turning you golden and Edward Sharpe singing Home.

And I am, I am. I am truly, truly, home.

Remembering a scene from life in boarding school.

I had this conversation with an especially perceptive batchmate of mine, he had posted an Owl City lyric quote (which I love) in his WhatsApp story and what followed was a brief exchange which reinstated my faith in good conversation:

So we spoke of nostalgia and I remember saying how I:

…never delete old music, I have everything people think are “trashy” now and whenever I listen to them, I remember how I used to be, who I listened to those songs with, how they smiled when “our” song came up and all of it, and I realize that I liked myself, I was satiated, content, I didn’t have demands and most of the good memories are from boarding so all of it, our farewell bonfire parties, end of school year November chill in the air, the night sky like an endless inky blue sea placid in its starry brightness and I’ve never seen so many stars in my life, I remember stargazing with my best friends, desperately looking for Draco and it was so quiet, no one would speak, we would wait and listen to the wild come alive, and I can’t do justice describing how unreal the night was, the crisp smell of winter air, crackling fire and us sitting away in the dark, overcoats up to our ears, rubbing our palms, huddled together, watching our backs after exchanging ghost stories, warily glancing at the outline the trees made against the sky, distinguishing it from the mountains’, pretending to hear a wolf howl, really hearing one! Bats, the wind, the trees swaying as coming alive, the hills descending with the darkness of the night broken only by the few stars that were peeping from the clouds, then the clouds overcasting the sky, the first drop of an occasional winter spray. And we’re all running inside, current failure, running up to dormitories, candles and fireplaces lit up. Sitting around for dinner, elated about getting home with the pinch of not seeing each other for 3 long, long months. It was magic

Because:

[7/28, 21:17] Ayana: No experience can be disregarded. I’ve been to seven schools and I die to know how it would’ve been to have belonged to one place for 14 years [7/28, 21:34] Ayana: It’s so complicated now. Everything, complicated, convoluted and ill-meaning and self serving all the time. It’s a small piece of paradise to be able to reconnect with memories of innocence. Really, that’s all I have to keep me going. Whenever I’m upset, I close my eyes and go away to kurseong, to those nights, years and years surrounded by perfect quiet with only the sounds of nature and good natured banter

And of course: his extremely valid point:

See, that’s why you ought not to question nostalgia 😛 Yeah, I would say, in other words, that life, Ayana, is simply waiting to see the present in retrospect. Nostalgia is our only way of time travel, by which the human mind uses it’s marvellous faculty of imagination to turn back the very laws of physics-we live at that moment of past, more powerfully than we live in our present, because we acutely try to feel and somewhat succeed in replicating the original emotion again and again. We live powerfully in those moments as our own ghosts. Perhaps the ability to visit our past, our past as we know it, is the best gift humanity has ever had.

I agreed:

[7/28, 22:11] Ayana: I don’t question it simply because I want to keep some things to myself, because it’s necessary to believe in the magic of old times, otherwise there isn’t much to live for, nothing except memories. [7/28, 22:12] Ayana: But I’m also aware that it’s not sacrosanct and it’s painful. But its always better to keep it out from dissection, because, really, bitterness of the soul/mind is directly proportional to time.

And still nodding my agreement to this statement he made:

Yeah. We need to keep certain things out of dissection. Dissect the body, not life.

Do you think agree with me? Tell me what you think.

The Eve of Night’s Reign

I watched the lonely bird disappear in the horizon
The Queen dispatched the warm orange of her day’s Sun to pursue it.
The kingdom of Sky was an endless canvas of yellow,
the occasional orange and red streaking across.

The soft breeze, like satin caressed my skin.

Those were the telltale signs
The time had come.

The dying rays of Sun directed my pursuit
leading me into the canopy of your dwelling
among the trees that stood tall and somber.

I thought I heard the familiar rustle of the leaves
like the forest was waking from it’s enchanted slumber

Had you come for me?

I reached out for you.
Sure enough a branch of oak encircled my waist.
The light is failing fast.
I turn around in your arms
looking through the dimness
into the dark brown of your eyes,
partly concealed under the yards of chestnut.

The musk of pine in your breath entices my senses
the deep wheat of your skin reflects the last of the golden light.

In a tremulous outreach I pick a fly-away leaf from your rippling mass of chestnut.
A hint of a smile playing in the corner of your mouth.

Then in a swish of your cloak
–a kiss on my lips
–a click of of your heels
you’re gone again

Back in the open

The Sun has gone — not into oblivion.
The Queen has retrieved her forces.
Somewhere a monotonous bird calls to it’s mate
The fly-away leaf lays in my open palm, gazing.
The sounds of the forest are returning

I think I hear a thousand hooves
A war horn screams afar — in glorious victory.
The King is here to reign.
Her day is stepping aside.

The kingdom of Sky welcomes the pearly calm of Moon
And the King rides in with his vast, bellowing cloak of midnight blue.