Of Scorching Autumns

You know one of those times when you travel long distances and the only thing going on inside of your head is a particular part of a particular song? It can be SO distracting especially when you’re walking down the pavement and the music inside your mind feels so real that all you want to do is burst into song. Today the only song playing on repeat is “Photograph” another precious relic from Ed Sheeran’s collection of songs.

Anyways, on this miraculous occasion, when I have decided to immediately follow one blog post with another, I will entertain you with what I call a free verse. It’s not the kind which should be mistaken for poetry – it’s scattered and broken prose. Feel free to interpret it whatever way you want.

Her favorite season was autumn. Her favorite shawl was Mauve. She knocked over vases down in the hall; her blood absorbed in the golden carpet. She smiled all the time, she smiled in joy and she smiled in pain. Her words like a downpour, brought along a hurricane. She loved alone, she loved silently. She loved very much. Fall leaves fell. No loves returned. She pondered a little, bookmark in her hands. How does one love someone who is loved by many? So many loves came and went. Was she too late? Was she too early? After all, how do you love someone when they cannot love you? The skies turned orange. The sun turned red. Much like the blood on the golden carpet. She slid in the bookmark. She let one more love go by. One day it would return. They always returned to her.


                                     

That’s about it. I don’t know what kind of literature to categorize this as! It’s almost prose but not quite there. Some elements try to rhyme themselves, although I swear I did not mean them to :P What inspired a random verse like this? I don’t know. I was just intrigued by a concept that came up in my mind many days back. How do you know if you play any role at all in the busy and fluttering social life of someone who has a billion friends? For all you know they are the Lancelot to your Elaine, and they will only acknowledge your existence once you are dead. In the worst case, your body will PROBABLY have to float down a river for them to notice you (To get this reference, read this beautiful Arthurian poem by Alfred Tennyson --> The Lady of Shalott)

I think in today’s world, we really take each other for granted. We don’t give the right people enough importance because we think they will always be there. Which is okay, and I do it as much as everyone else, but it’s sad that we hardly ever give love to those who love us genuinely. I know this will probably never get across to the right people because they are too busy with their lives, but I’m just glad I could pen down something about it J

So, the sun’s almost gone down. This horribly scorching autumn afternoon has finally passed. And I shall … see you in the next post!