It’s ironic how emptiness can fill you up, a crazy oxymoron that nevertheless manages to sap your existence, your life, leaving you broken down and lost. Here I am now, broken and lost. Here I am now, alone and friendless. Here I am now, in a room full of nothing, white walls with peeling paint, straight backed chair with the smell of freshly-painted plywood, a laptop with a new document, waiting for my words. Life here never stands still, never allows you a moment to bleed away your pains and sorrows. And yet, despite all the millions of things on my mind, you permeate through it all, occupying every available inch of space in my consciousness.

The chords of a fitting song start in a lilting tune, and the words that emanate softly resonate powerfully with my own thoughts.

How I wish…
How I wish you were here…

I know heaven. It was there in every moment we spent together. Now I know hell…I ache for your voice, your words, your mere presence. The green fields are now in disarray, covered up by the hot ashes; my smile has been hidden behind a veil. The world was our fish bowl, it was all I needed as long as we had each other. And now it’s too small and suffocating. Now, I want out. I want it all to end, just like the song has ended, fading out with the whisper of winds…

* * *

But just as one song ends, another begins. A quivering string sets the air around me vibrating, sending the gentle hum of a tune to my welcoming ears. The guitar strings are plucked and bent, rising in a tune that flutters a change in me. The complexity of the notes increases gradually, stopping to give words to my thoughts.

Where were you, when I was burned and broken,
While the days slipped by from my window watching?
Where were you when I was hurt and helpless…?

The things you said, and the things you did surround me. Every memory of mine is stained by your presence, like silk dropped in dye quickly absorbs the colour. How am I to think of everything that has been my past without thinking of you? How am I to move on when thoughts of you keep me here, frozen and hanging on to you?

All of a sudden, with the rising beat and the rising tempo, an epiphany comes to me, as it sometimes does in moments of utmost despair.

I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the moment had arrived
For killing the past and coming back to life

Something begins to stir within me. I unveil my smile, begin to sweep away the ashes that cover the green fields of my emancipation. I will never forget you, but I will try to forgive you, to push you into a corner of my past and leave you there. All the space I create will be filled with other things, things that make me happy—music, friends and love. I am no longer empty, for I have given wings to my soul and set it free. This room is no longer empty, for these white walls call out for posters, for a tinge of colour and life.

Life.

Lyrics from Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” and “Coming Back to Life”

I spent hours in the rain, feeling the water slide off my skin, like the thoughts of you that I wished would  do the same. Memories of you cling to me like the sweat on my summer skin. So I stood in the rain, eyes  closed, face turned up to the sky. Streams of crystal water slid down my face, mingling with tears, dropping  from the tips of my beard. Somewhere in the distance, life went on. Toads were rejoicing, and frogs were  mating. None of my emptiness mattered to the world. Everything was alright. Somewhere beyond my limit of  vision, a rainbow peeked blushingly out from behind the clouds, taking its first look at a wet world, watched loving by his father, the sun. I think I heard it’s mirthful squeal of excitement. I wonder if I might ever find this world as wonderful as the rainbow did. Birds chirrup loudly, and I’m sure I hear their songs. For once, the cars were quiet and human life came to a stop. No one was shouting, no one was yelling. No one was  fighting or glaring in dislike. No one cared about anything but keeping themselves dry.

When I opened my eyes, I saw blurry hues of green and blue, speckled with the dull brown of the mud. It took a while to wipe the water and the tears from my eyes, and a little longer to wipe my glasses. But in that one moment when I put them on, I felt my breath being taken away. Here I was, in solitude, with no sounds to hear, but the melodies of nature and the voices in my own head and heart. For a few minutes, the voices were silent. I was absorbed, I was but a mere thread in the fabric of life, and while I stood surrounded by the  truth itself, it reached out to me. I am but a mere thread in the fabric of life, and life is eternal. I am eternal. Everything I do, everything I touch, everyone I meet is a part of me, and I am a part of them. We are all different, and yet we are one, and we are all eternal. There I stood, finally finding the peace that eluded me for days.

The rain abated finally, and the clouds parted lovingly for the sun to smile at me. I smiled back at it, my  first smile in days…since you’ve been gone. I pick a fallen flower; so gently it lay on the soaked ground that it reminded me of you, lying gently and peacefully under the surface of the earth. But today, for the  first time since you went away, I am at peace. I lay the flower gently back on the ground where it belongs,  for in the end, everything must return to where it came from…even you.

I’ve been 21 for a little over an hour now. The twentieth day of May lies generally in the heart of Indian Summer, the kind of summer that is capable of taking life away.

I’ve been writing for years now, and I’ve had many sources of inspiration. My misfortune has been that most of the time, that source of inspiration comes not from within me or my world. It comes from the world’s perception of me. I must write better. I must impress others. I must be the best (or at least among the best). There was a point of time once, I think, when I would write because I wanted to write to please myself. Now I write to show others… when did things change?

I’ve been pondering about my writing, and my writing reflects on myself. Have I ever lived or done things to please myself rather than please others? When did I stop? Why? … who am I? Myself, or an amalgamation of the ideas others have of me?

Far away, I hear thunder. The nineteenth day of May, 2008 has been extremely hot. But the night rebels. The night rebels in tune with the rebellion rising in my heart. I have to find myself. The wind picks up speed, coming in cold and heavy from the open window diagonally across me. It brings the sound of thunder… in the heart of summer, it brings the smell of rain.

The sky can’t seem to decide whether it’s night or day. It lingers in a blue-grey haze, being neither azure day, nor inky night… and yet, a bit of both. The tip of my pen dances joyously over the page, words springing forth mirthfully. My thoughts condense calmly, crystal clear in a mind at peace. Yet my eyes can barely see these little glyphs of love come together in the darkness…

Is this how we live life? In the shadows, we write our own lives. Yet we barely see what we’ve written until we’re done and have reached a place of light…

Friends. Strangers. People I don’t know, people I love. Through silence, I hear you speak, words arranged like flowers in a garden. My breath gets taken away by the beauty. Every thought you plant blossoms in my head, giving rise to emotions and feelings that come all that once, making me confused. All at once, I am honoured, delighted, happy beyond belief and then frustrated beyond anger. I want to be here in your garden, and yet I seek to run away. Behind a tiny flower plant of my own, I hide myself. There’s nothing to show, but there’s so much to say. Now, by myself, I speak so no one hears.