The Steppenwolf

It’s a full moon outside tonight. There are very few things in this world that are as beautiful as a full moon on a silent night. You look up to see the moon partly covered by the clouds, that try their very best to overshadow the radiance of it. Someone should tell them that when the moon shines with all its might, it overpowers the darkness of even the looming clouds, with its pristine white light. Then the very same clouds can’t help but appear soft and milky at the behest of the mighty moon. Such is the beauty of the moon that even the threatening clouds can’t help but add to the beauty of it.

But sadly these are the days of darkness! Tonight is a night when a Steppenwolf looks up at the moon and howls out of sadness. This Steppenwolf calls out for the one he loves and howls with all his might so that perhaps somewhere far far away the she-wolf will hear his cries and answer back. It is the same moon, adding the same beauty to the night, which makes the wolf lonesome tonight.

For the longest time I used to think that death is the most painful thing in human life. Because death has the ultimate power of swiftly swooping down like an eagle attacking its prey, to suddenly grab the poor soul, only to swoosh away with the powerful flap of its wings. I certainly haven’t died and I certainly would be last person to speak intelligently about the nuances of something as mighty as death.

But tonight, looking at the Steppenwolf, I feel that death perhaps is only a new beginning, which settles silently on some of us while makes the most of others. Eventually though its peace that settles upon the one in grasp of death. Come to think of it there’s something infinitesimally worse than death. It is the ability of life to give the power of sight to a blind person and then take it back from them. Ah, those colors of life! Full of life and vigor; meaning and exuberance; beauty and radiance- to give it to someone, who has accepted darkness as a way of life, and to then take it back- that my friends is the most cruel of it all. Metaphorically speaking, when you don’t have a heart you don’t know how or where it beats. Neither do you know how much it aches inside your chest. Then one fine day you feel the steady and rhythmic thump inside. Sure, it’s nice to feel life in place of the numb deadness, but it definitely isn’t nice to bear the ache that sooner or later comes with it. When the grief inside becomes so damn much that you feel like tearing your heart out. When the same life loses the feel and appearance and exuberance of the same bright colors, and it becomes nothing more than a bland black and white painting; because there frankly is no meaning to life without that which gives colors to it.

It is then that the Steppenwolf cries out of pain, and howls for what he has lost and what he desperately seeks. Believe you me, his pain is far greater than the pain of death. During the day, you might look at the façade and think that there barely is anything wrong. But the fact remains that the pain never dies…. And that it hurts the most when it’s beautiful outside. Because the wolf knows that there is no end to these moonlit nights and there is no end to the pain within, and there certainly is no inner peace.

The irony of life and the truth of the matter is that there always is this hard and callous ugliness on the other side of beauty. They are both juxtaposed in such a way that the former follows the latter like the links in a chain. C’est la vie, huh?

I still stand in the same corner looking out for those eyes that suddenly looked at me. All I can see is the loneliness mirrored on a beautiful moonlit night. 

The feel of your touch

More often than I know, I find myself rambling about on the dusty, hazy, murky streets of life. The ones, where the ferociously strong winds of time, blows into my ragged face the sands of a raging storm, comprising of dreams long broken and a life once lost. Burning my eyes, and obscuring my vision and any clarity. I move from person to person and from people to people aimlessly, for want of warmth and comfort, for want of catharsis, of peace and life, of love and passion. When the fire that should burn inside of me, comes out to engulf and burn me out instead. When the calmness within takes the shape of a dense cold mist, that shudders the mind and the body. When the wounds of distant past split wide open, like a deep gash on wasted flesh. The ones which I had hoped would heal, to give me character and strength. It is then, that I want the touch, which would lift me from my torment.  I stand alone on these streets, waiting for my deliverance; with my eyes closed and my hands held forward. Waiting and wanting, for you to move me away from my agony.

I wait with my eyes wide shut…. To suddenly see you staring right back at me. I see you in the crowd, in this melee of mindless hustle; where the only person that makes sense is you. I gravitate to you, like the light breeze that sets in with a musky, soft drizzle.

You place your hands on mine and the tenderness of your touch stirs my soul deep within my body. It is not your words that move my mind, but the feel of your hands on mine. When you lightly place then on me, you bring along the care and warmth of your feelings pent inside. You invoke within me the want that I had been seeking to soak my soul into; like a much awaited shower on a dry and parched earth.

I break down into million pieces when you touch me; each and every piece waiting and wanting to become alive by the feel of your hands. I wish to capture this moment within the sand-glass, so as to keep turning it around, over and over again. How I wish to keep holding you, to feel your touch, every hour and every second of my otherwise miserable life.

I once had a dream. In this dream I saw a white flower, surrounded by a soft sparkling glow. I knew then that if I could touch this flower, I could feel the bare blue cold waters of a vast ocean on my fingertips, I could feel the warmth of a soft orange glow within the palms of my hands, I could feel the mighty winds blowing high above on the mountains, and I would then touch the depth of my bereft heart.        

In between space and time

Caught in between the fading warmth of your touch and the smell of your body, I keep turning around to look for you. With the cold mist of time fading everything in between, what I still find left of is the feeling of loving you and being loved back. Do I not look enough and hold so as I thought I used to hold you. Then why is it that the warmth of bodies feel cold to these numb fingers. Why do I not feel the love within, when I close these droopy, downcast and forlorn eyes?

I open them to look up into those soft brown eyes of yours. They look at me once, moving away presently, only to come back again. I take your hands into mine, to feel the warmth of your presence. The radiance on your face and the twinkle in your eyes are what I had been searching for in the long, cold and dark corners of my mind. When I see you smiling shyly at me is when I feel the warmth of the bright shining yellow sun that finally comes out after a long spell of long cold shower accompanied by the black looming clouds. The touch of your hands is like the smell of night-blooming cestrum, the fragrance of which gets stronger with the darkness inside. I feel so easily lost while running my fingers in your smooth straight hair. I take the scent of which with my eyes closed.

Longing to touch your lips and to hold you near, I open my eyes to alas find you gone once again. I wonder if it was but just a dream, or was it a long lost image of you left inside my head. Ah! Why does my mind play these games? The cruel time then again takes you away from me.

I wonder if I could once again drown out my sorrow with a few glasses of whiskey. Just so I could obliterate you from my damned memory. Its not the dizziness or the thick cloud of my past that gives me any comfort. Neither does the golden glow of my so called savior. It makes me laugh hysterically only to make me pull my knees to my chest and to cry out in pain. I hate you for not leaving me alone and for not letting me go. How can you not hear me scream out. How could you not hear me say that I needed you more than anything. I close my eyes for they hurt as hell.

I open my eyes to look at you once again. You have a lot of concern in them. Baby are you all right, is what you ask me. I smile at you and say, I'm fine now.

There is fear that rises inside of me. What now when I close my eyes again….