Between the extremities of hope and despair, lies a life, that goes on living... unnoticed. It remains confined to the four walls of a room; unobtrusive, silent and motionless. But alive..it resembles the faucet in your kitchen, the type, you know, which no matter how hard you try to turn off, always has a trickle of water dripping from it... not a jet of water; not a completely dried up nozzle.. but somewhere in between. Or maybe like the stillness of the leaves on the tree in front of your house that you see daily from your window in the cold winters... pale, lifeless, but still functional... This peculiar life is like an insomniac's sleep- just when he feels that he is drifting off into that blissful state of unawareness, his mind makes its presence felt... so near, and yet so far away. Insomnia is really weird, it's not that you don't sleep; your body does go to sleep, but your brain just doesn't... and it is this un-synchronized state that grips you and leaves you somewhere in between... just like this life which has found its restive equilibrium...between false dawns and lonely nights, it stays put in this room... it peers out of the solitary opening carved in the walls, the window I mean, beyond the curtains.. every morning, sometimes late at night. Not much changes though; not when you watch from this window. There is an inertia which seems to have stopped time.. the clock ticks away the seconds, minutes and hours everyday... the calendar marks the end of the month, flips over a page, moves over to another. but this view from the window stays static....dust accrues over the window sill, cobwebs grow in size, and this life keeps on living...Sometimes a pigeon comes over at the window.. its curiosity aroused by the strangeness of the room. It taps at the glass.. as if trying to say 'hello! Anybody home?".. No response... just a few incomprehensible murmurs... a rustle of the bed sheets... but no more than that. The pigeon flies away disappointed...
There is a fountain pen which lies on the table, uncapped. There is a blot of ink on the nib, as if inviting you to pick it up and pour out a story that will be grander than creation of this universe.. but alas! the ink in it has dried up... the story, thus remains untold...There in that very room, lives this life... between a newborn's first cry and a funeral march... between the vacuum of black holes and the fulfilling enlightenment of revelations... yes, in that very room... lives this life...unnoticed, unperturbed..
In one corner of the room, if you had looked hard enough, you would have noticed an army of ants moving in a beeline towards the window... stocking reserves, marking the onset of a seasonal change....
"Winter is coming", you would have concluded..
"It's time to hibernate", this life would have responded.....
There is a fountain pen which lies on the table, uncapped. There is a blot of ink on the nib, as if inviting you to pick it up and pour out a story that will be grander than creation of this universe.. but alas! the ink in it has dried up... the story, thus remains untold...There in that very room, lives this life... between a newborn's first cry and a funeral march... between the vacuum of black holes and the fulfilling enlightenment of revelations... yes, in that very room... lives this life...unnoticed, unperturbed..
In one corner of the room, if you had looked hard enough, you would have noticed an army of ants moving in a beeline towards the window... stocking reserves, marking the onset of a seasonal change....
"Winter is coming", you would have concluded..
"It's time to hibernate", this life would have responded.....
