A tint of Scarlet

I am unaware of the fact that what name to give to this feeling. A feeling that runs inside your body, but does not rule you. A feeling that makes you do so many crazy things, but when you want it, you can grasp it and enclose it by a paper wrap in one of your closets. The feeling, which looks like vivid footprints on the throat of a shore and smells like the puffy cheeks of a toddler, bringing with him euphoria into your life. The numbness, the bound, the magic and the momentum that this feeling fetches for you, unknowingly cuts through your emotions. In a sanctified midnight sky, with bright hue stars singing from Mozart, this feeling touches your soul.

I do not know of the exact time when I came to realize, a feeling like this actually existed. That it fused a smile in your curvavious lips. It made your dimples even narrower. It moved you. It grew in you. Far away from the confines of my mind, there are people, I know it all, who have felt it differently. A grandfather running his own four wheels, he sits there in a lonely bench of a park thinking about old times. He reckons doing more fight over small things than playing football under the raging sun. His first love, how awesomely pretty she looked in a velvet sari. The first feeling, the strange one, in knowing that his heart was about to burst with someone else's presence. The goosebumps still freshly found in his skin, the eyes that hindered away here and there.

He felt the feeling, it was heaven. It was mesmerizing. It was knowing that from that one moment onwards your life, your dreams, your reality and your fantasy would take a stride. It was also believing it in, faithfully and hopefully. Then she also felt it. She felt it in the form of God. A facade of god that she nurtered within her umbical cords. Hearing the pulse in the arms, the hands and bone marrow. The dhak-dhak, a continous chanting that inspired life. Gossiping nochantly with two fingers touching the edge of her womb, as if he understands. Holding him in her hands, loving him even before he was wished for.

It's the time of a night, when I feel like just sitting in an armchair and conversing with myself. With a part of me, who feels the feeling, who sees the sight and who hears the voice. But is it always possible to tell yourself to walk on a track, even when you know you'll be run over. How many days can be spent, being concious of people, being concious of their happiness, without caring for your one. How many nights shall the bedsheets soak the sorrows, that the people who you felt would understand, don't. The heart is like a thick windchime that sings beautifully, but when you break off one of it's stringe, it's symphony is incomplete.