Untimely Tempests—A Memoir

Bed sheets are turning blue and crayons are becoming duller. The roof under which you slept has started betraying you beside the new dawn of reality. It’s the one thing that never stopped or what is this creative pain that nobody ever speaks of.

I have been once told that life was supposed to be a beautiful gift—raining flowers and replica of red smiles. Perhaps now that I’m fully able to comprehend—the nature of our own blasphemy.

It was a plain Saturday when I sat beside the last piece of bread wanting to feed my dancing stomach. Papa’s voice had been pale and I knew that it was getting worse. A colorful window of love seems to have grasped our imaginations to an indistinguishable place. Our voices are recurring and there is nothing—or nobody named hunger.

Pain was pretty and people were polite. There is nobody to abandon last of the unfelt humans because each song is such pleasant and pristine. Suddenly a voice calls out towards the echoing shadows. We do not know because we never noticed the uninteresting rays that kept everyone confined.

And when the new song starts singing itself—skin is gone and so is my happiness. Papa’s voice could no longer be felt and all that there was—strings of suffocation and my bleeding chest. I cannot tell, for the parallels of life were all snatched away from me. Talking to the three day old lambs and the yellow fields that are now just a delusion.

“Where is my Papa?”

Ceilings started undressing each other and the tides of grief could not stop loving me. The mind has been such brutally craved and left without a word. Human—I’m not one and my heart is just a rubber out of remaining misery with in.

When one thinks about the complexities of life—I think it would be most fair to look at the conditionals that it has us walking beside. A step into the royal land or beside the purple towel would have us stabbed and a life with yearnings already has us falling.

It’s the most beautiful irony of this life—unfelt happiness inside the stringless guitars. Perhaps it was all a construct of nobody ever and all that there was, an elimination game of probability. That would explain the absence of the supernatural phenomenon but I still sit and think about singing beside the silk and the salty ocean.

Urges have me drowning but when I think of it, nothing had me flying—ever. The gift of life is an elegant butterfly which is restricted to fly. And essence multiplies as it divides. Nobody ever stopped smiling—perhaps laughing at others demise because it’s the one thing that makes us human.

Yogesh Chandra