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A Wistful Evening. 

Stars and moon have it in their nature. When you lay on wet welcoming grass and your eyes are pulled in by the sky, the biology of your senses change, and you meet yourself. In that hard contemplative moment, you are in serene sojourn with your own self. 

One such evening, when the Sun had closed it doors, and the moonlit night spread over with its stoic demeanour, he witnessed the thoughts flowing through his gut. What of the weary past and what of the daring future. What of the fate? What of the planetary movements? He thought of Camus’ Nihilism, of Aurelius’ stoicism. Philosophy, which had been his refuge for a long time, seemed to betray that evening. What of that sweet philosophy that had been loyal that it became disloyal, still holding its spell and charm. 

He thought of her, the one who spoke to him, the wool of her skin, the screen of her eyes, and all that made her. He should not have thought of her. He knew. The spring, in its witty manner, was doing its work. He was rebelling against the forces of nature. He remembered the wrinkles of past that form on our soul, and turn red and nasty with our attention, and sometimes lay benign when we are oblivious to them. He remembered the young boy who suffered. In his quest to let go, he reminded himself to also hold on. And, what we let go, in an absurd way, we still hold on to that. 

The wind was enveloping him in its own weird way, like it always does. When you fall in love with the wind, it imprisons you. In those lusty hours, he thought of the remains. The ashes that are never immersed in the holy river. In this nude moment, he wore all that he should have retired long ago. He questioned the wisdom, of the sages and fools. He thought of death. What if it were to arrive now? Would it be early or late? Would it be timely? He thought of the quest – of its annoying nature and its endless pursuit. 

He lay lay there at the edge of society, filling himself with  indifference, and emptying himself of his own burning presence.    

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