Purple Tears

It's a time of the night when one has no clue of the killing of the cigarette in the ash tray, the fading away of the sodium lights in the busiest roads now settled; I lay down my cozy armchair and at times wriggle myself a bit, once in a while my body shuddering from the freezing numbness. I, an empty figure that depicts hopelessness look back at what life has managed to shape me as, piercing through me jots of lessons, experiences that graphically makes me what I am today and could have ever been at any phase of life.

Life can be splendid, but is the toughness and the boldness with which life treats an already tackled champion is worth all the thoughts, all the mists and the fog that encircles it. It is one who has the courage to fight for a truth, a love to live for is worth being competed with. Otherwise life could be uttering mushy adieus every single day to our beloved ones while sipping down coconut drinks under an umbrella in a beach where you can see the sunset and sunrise. Life could be owning a mansion and having grasped in one hand enough well-established estate to woo away all the money that comes from it for seven life times. Life could be a mother who suffers the pain of child-birth for about nine months and finally disagreeing to give birth to her daughter because she would have to bear added expenses in the households.

Life can or could be any of the aforementioned, but then this small word that we utter with our dried, chapped, colored, scented, odorous lips every single day would have petite meaning that it withholds within itself. Life would be the wink of a farmer's gloomy eyes with the absence of the drops of rain that imparts vitality to the green pastures. Life would be a pale palette of an ardent painter who has an option of either black or white to color the portrait in which he could see many dreams being realized. Life would be a small girl but above all an elder sister of a five year old brother who walks down the pavement, the crossroads, the rail lines enthusiastically in hope that she would make it back to their makeshift with food, gracious food in her hands, but fails to do so. Life would be a carefully scribbled out love letter, in neat handwriting and such neat a gesture that could not be delivered to the person who it was meant to be and not it stays there, in the middle of a road, as a shadow that is divided by lines until the grim from a passerby washes it's essence away.

Life, it's just not a word to me but it's a music that I hear which manages to cripple me in it's enigmatic web. I search for the meaning of this music, sometimes empowering and other times staggering. I want to touch it's tune, I want to feel the words until they don't mum away my pains, undo my heart ache and wash away the numbness down my memory lane. If i can only find it...