Dark night spread across his whole atmosphere, he could only see one ball of light. It was bright, it was yellow and it kindled sparks across everywhere he could see. He was glad. He was happy from inside, though very far away, at least he could see light, coming right at him through many twists and turns, maybe for him. He had lived through his melancholy, he had pulled his tired pieces of heart along the death river which he once fell in. Perhaps today, the pieces fitted fine to fix his inside, but you never know. Life can play rock and roll in moments. You don't have any answer then. I didn't.
He faced the bright ball which seemed to entice him with every drop of moment he lived. I could see his eyes diving into the sea of beauty and positive light. He was losing himself. That is what happens when darkness meets light. When I met her. Light swilled through his cold turns and filled him with a new feeling; a feeling he had always dreamed of, it was his now. He could feel his life changing. Like a perfect piece of cloud suddenly decides to protect you from the hot. Like a butterfly, making way into a new world, a brighter one. Just like me, he was in love, he was flying without pain, and he couldn't hear what I said. I could have explained.
His magic ball, well aware of his overt dependence on the bright light of hers, had a vision. Self-sufficient. Experienced. With options. Yet, she welcomed his presence around her heart. They held hands. I was smiling, yet, I knew, love is a sea of the chase. All of his troubles, pain, agony burned away by the heart of fire she had. His life was flying with open wings of destiny and perfection. He was happy. I was happy too, then. Love had inundated their roads and oh, they looked great. What if my story had lasted forever? What if I hadn't been too late? What if...doesn't matter. She and I burnt long back. I wanted to tell him my story. I didn't. Maybe.
I watched them pass over the mountains. Play over the sky. Often lost them and then found them again. Oh, they looked beautiful. However, perfection, lives immured just till the realm of our minds. Her vision. Her priority. Her choice. Her decisions. Her time. Did his ball have a black face? It didn't, for him; for me. He lay himself transparent in her warm heart; gave her every piece of him he could. Lay the key to his future into her hands, till he stopped. For hope, believe and faith were the presents in disguise he was endowed with, by the inherent light of his ball; his life. I was watching, ready to catch my friend; ready to tell him my story; ready to play my song with him, with me. I knew, for all my past had begone, but memories remained, like tentacles of a monster, trapping me and never letting me go.
He tried, till he could, till the fragile pieces became more brittle with blood and of course, that fire. Bright fire. Not so bright anymore. I prayed to God, take life out of him and give him peace, and a new life; a new meaning. For he never listened to me. Not to my stories, not to my words, not to anything dark I had to say. It's simple and it's clear, when you see light, you run towards it, with a satiated smile.
They call him Moon and his magic ball, the Sun. Today, if you see the sky, all the light our moon gives us is actually a part of what it gets from his ball; his magic ball. Maybe that's why we associate him with love and her with positiveness. I'm glad he didn't listen to what I had to say, 'cause my pieces are still apart and my ball is running far away from me, into a dark abyss, where she can hide her light. She thinks I'm happy. She thinks I am glad. Less does she know; those tentacles of my memories are hurting and painful. I take all the blames my sun has to fire me with. My moon awaits me and he told me not to cry.
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| Picture Courtesy: Google |
His magic ball, well aware of his overt dependence on the bright light of hers, had a vision. Self-sufficient. Experienced. With options. Yet, she welcomed his presence around her heart. They held hands. I was smiling, yet, I knew, love is a sea of the chase. All of his troubles, pain, agony burned away by the heart of fire she had. His life was flying with open wings of destiny and perfection. He was happy. I was happy too, then. Love had inundated their roads and oh, they looked great. What if my story had lasted forever? What if I hadn't been too late? What if...doesn't matter. She and I burnt long back. I wanted to tell him my story. I didn't. Maybe.
I watched them pass over the mountains. Play over the sky. Often lost them and then found them again. Oh, they looked beautiful. However, perfection, lives immured just till the realm of our minds. Her vision. Her priority. Her choice. Her decisions. Her time. Did his ball have a black face? It didn't, for him; for me. He lay himself transparent in her warm heart; gave her every piece of him he could. Lay the key to his future into her hands, till he stopped. For hope, believe and faith were the presents in disguise he was endowed with, by the inherent light of his ball; his life. I was watching, ready to catch my friend; ready to tell him my story; ready to play my song with him, with me. I knew, for all my past had begone, but memories remained, like tentacles of a monster, trapping me and never letting me go.
He tried, till he could, till the fragile pieces became more brittle with blood and of course, that fire. Bright fire. Not so bright anymore. I prayed to God, take life out of him and give him peace, and a new life; a new meaning. For he never listened to me. Not to my stories, not to my words, not to anything dark I had to say. It's simple and it's clear, when you see light, you run towards it, with a satiated smile.
They call him Moon and his magic ball, the Sun. Today, if you see the sky, all the light our moon gives us is actually a part of what it gets from his ball; his magic ball. Maybe that's why we associate him with love and her with positiveness. I'm glad he didn't listen to what I had to say, 'cause my pieces are still apart and my ball is running far away from me, into a dark abyss, where she can hide her light. She thinks I'm happy. She thinks I am glad. Less does she know; those tentacles of my memories are hurting and painful. I take all the blames my sun has to fire me with. My moon awaits me and he told me not to cry.
