The Moon and Me

I sat at my window tonight, a soft breeze in my hair and the moonlight on my face.

I stared at the moon, contemplating my life and it stared back. But tonight it wasn’t just the moon, it was a poet, a storyteller. A person.

She didn’t just illuminate the night sky, she whispered to me. And I whispered back.

She shared stories of distant stars and galaxies. She sung songs of the valor and exploits of space pirates. She recited ballads of the past, all the people she had seen, all the beauty she had beheld. She told me about the various blemishes on her face and I shared my flaws and insecurities. She spoke of the silence and I talked about being alone amidst all the noise.

We talked for hours and hours. She cried about her lifelong longing for a companion.

She just wanted someone to listen and I just wanted someone to understand.

And we sat there, stories at our lips, talking of our fears and fantasies, until it was morning and she had to go.

I stared at the sky, long after she had gone, replaying the conversation in my head.

And finally, when I  moved away from the window, moonlight was shining through the cracks in my heart.

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Varsha

वर्षा (Varsha) [n.] : rainfall, rain, volley, shatter

The first drop falls on my nose, causing my mouth to open in an involuntary grin. Slowly the road around me becomes a mosaic of wet and dry cemented ground.

The trees swing around, dancing and singing in an ancient tongue. Children run straight into the rain, giggling and laughing, filling the atmosphere with their contagious happiness. A few windows open in the nearby houses, letting the sweet summer rain in.

The clouds rumble overhead, laughing at the childlike delight on every face. Some women rush out to gather the clothes hung out to dry, swearing at the children to move out of their way.

A few flowers fall off the trees and rush to the ground, as if to kiss the exact spot where the raindrops land.
The wind blows at my face and dances through my hair, wanting to share the stories of distant places. It carries the ambrosial aroma of rain with it, that fills my lungs and fixes the cracks in my soul. The leaves dance wildly, in bliss and euphoria.

The soft melody of the shower falling on the ground, the laughter of the clouds, and the songs of the trees pull an invisible string in my heart. I close my eyes and let the music fill me up and heal all the wounds inside me.

The children jump puddles and make paper boats. The adults gaze at the sky lovingly and comment on the pleasant change in weather.

And me?

I just stand there, eyes closed, arms wide open and face the grey heavens.

I listen.

I listen for the soft drops of rain as it kisses the ground.

I listen for the distant tweet of a bird rushing to its home.

I listen for the sound of wind chimes as wind rushes past them.

I listen for the breeze as it whispers secrets into my ears.
I listen for the sound of happiness. And my soul is washed through.

I am new again.