Today, I have no stories to tell. There is only the faint glow of an old oil lamp, a flame from the wick steadily lighting up a warm circle, keeping at bay the night and its darkness. There should, ideally, be a breeze, but not today. There is only a loud stillness and the ebb and flow of thoughts. A conversation is not rare, even when words are not spoken. There is much to be said, but not much already not said. It is a kind of repetitive rinsing. Washed repeatedly, it shines a true transparence. A new spectacle to see the world through.
Being twice out on the roads in two months should satiate even the hungriest looking for an uncertain familiarity in the hands of strangers. Not for me. Each outing only makes the yearning stronger. When you dream, plot and plan for it so much, the inevitability of it is least surprising. It is not unhappiness that I find here, but it is not the zenith of happiness either. I’m uncertain whether leaving here would be flight, or a homecoming. I don’t have the required objectivity to call it right. Regardless, I’m inching forward.
We had a day of almost endless rain. The incessant drumming of droplets and bits of pine slows down now and then before it starts off again. I can sit and watch it rain endlessly in the valley; what does time mean? I do not care to know how this universe came about, but I can imagine a very creative bent of mind at work. Hell, I could call you ‘god’ just to have a name I can send the congratulations to. Morning finds night’s blanket dragged away from the valley, leaving bits of cottony clouds still stuck to the mountains. Untidy, it is childishness at its best, but it lends an indescribable joy to this adult’s mind.
Returns often find me maudlin, not this time. Few miles on our way back and I had already returned in mind a hundred times and plotted another hundred times more how to be back with body in tow. We have flowers here too, where I live, it is hard to escape the green. But, it is something about the green’s shade? Or is it something about that droplet on the tip of a leaf, a purity that can only be experienced? There is something there and there is no escaping it.