“The more you let yourself be distracted from where you are going, the more you are the person that you are. It's not so much like getting lost as it is like getting found.”
~~ William Stafford quote
Sunday, May 31, 2009
he walked down the road, in a usual hurry he scrolled, the newspaper left his hands in the back seat of his new merc it land, sumthing was flowing in the wind today, it was the same old day, the sun was ok.. what was it that changed, his hands on gear , one up n it roared, meeting up in half an hour more the tune on the radio was not unheard,it struck, why was he not, looking at the road, his mind slipping sight, the board room is where he rushed. not even a single word, did he listen where was it all coming from , a voice in the trail, a tune, not much frail, out that room he went, to his lone place his own corner, flipping over his diary, he dint realize, when he closed his eyes, the day she left him, for her trip to the heavenly abode, just came back, and still he found his hands his eyes rolled , back n forth on that nightmare he remembers that day when she took that last breath.. clear , with each passing second, with each breath lost, with every minute of an unsaid prayer, with a beat he could not count, with his hands entangled in her fingers, her hand slipping out of time his eyes with dreams and life, hers just losing on his hold getting stronger , all she held was a sight his lips looking for words to fill, her words filling that hospital room, his wishes he could hear, her last one, he wasnt willing to give a ear..
hands over his face, moist eyes he opened sweat engulfed his brows, he felt her again , in the middle of the day, why , what was missing he remembers her last rites, her last word, that final day, n he flipped the pages of the calendar he ran out of the room , to the burial place, n there he cried , how he forgot the only day she wanted him to remember her on, thankful that they could meet each other that they could be together, that they could live those moments, that she ever lived, n all this while mourning the day she left, lost sumwhere, the day she came.. n he wished her on her birthday.
“They miss the whisper that runs
any day in your mind,
"Who are you really, wanderer?"
and the answer you have to give
no matter how dark and cold
the world around you is:
"Maybe I'm a king."”
~~ William Stafford