A melancholic “minor key piano” music playing in the television, in distant hall room, right across the wall.
Sitting in the swing in the veranda.
That slow lazy motion of the swing.
The mild fluttering of the breeze, touching the skin and passing by.
The bustling of the leaves, the neem tree in front of me, the coconut trees and the rest of it.
The leaves, the walls washed in the yellow street light.
The rickety noise of the broken swing.
No human sound at the dead of the night, 2 am of April 20.
That eminence of the swing and my leg hitting the adjacent walls.
The nudge of pain on the knees.
That minor irritation of mosquitoes.
The realization that all of this is accepted as is.
All the pains to be endured, all the joys to relished, as is.
The realization that this is all that I want from life.
To sit in a swing, the melancholy, the breeze.
This was peace.
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