Monday, December 18, 2006
Moments
I am twenty two. There is an unusual chill in the air, the kind that permeates the body and overwhelms the senses. Snowflakes dance and twirl a perfect ten in mid air like an Olympic figure skater, only to die upon hitting the ground. The weather is cold but still amicable enough to wander around on foot. I am the last one to leave and there is a comfortable silence that speaks louder than a thousand words.
It’s hard to pinpoint where reality ends and imagination takes hold, refusing to let go like a tiger on its prey. I imagined being in a place of serene beauty and ever lasting peace, where the mind runs free and ideality reigns supreme. The moon shines through the white curtains like a future bride spying upon her potential suitors, playing hide and seek, ducking and weaving in the heavenly path it follows. Making my way to the car, I gingerly step on the fresh snow to avoid any unsavory incidents. A deep breath and exhale.
I am six. We walk around the puddles of water which during the day serve as the battleground of boats for the neighborhood kids. Hand in hand, I follow my aunt and mother as we stroll through the darkness, lit in patches where families forget to turn off their porch lights. The familiar path guides us from one street to the next into a seemingly never ending maze of entrances and exits. I pass by Irfan’s house and reflect on the beating he received in cricket today, wondering if he will show up tomorrow. Next come the high walls of the mosque lacking paint and finishing touches but abundant in wild bushes that grow on its perimeter. Another house that I recognize; a kid with a yellow bicycle and a solid third place finish each time.
I like this. There is a certain eerie silence broken by the mother’s discussion as she talks to my aunt about something vaguely recognizable though I’m the least bit interested. It had stopped raining some hours ago so the air is infused with morning freshness and a hint of crispness only found after the first rainfall of the season. A prisoner rose bush sticks out a gated metal fence and if not for the watching eyes, I would have plucked it.
I am twelve. It is mid afternoon and the sweltering heat rains down like a plague. I sit inside my fourth floor apartment, immune to the elements but taking notice of the constant hum of the air conditioner. Everyone is asleep.
Life carries on beneath my nose even as it comes to a stand still in my head. I sit on the head of the sofa and gaze out into the open as people walk back and forth in quick paces to avoid the tyrant sun. White flowing robes, casual wear, shalwar kameez dot the horizon and endless stream of Mercedes, BMWs, Toyotas, Mazdas zip by as if racing towards a prize. Everyone is in a rush, yet there is a beauty to their madness, a cyclic rhythm that pulsates like a throbbing heart. I lean my head against the sun baked window--line between reality and imagination is blurred.
It’s hard to pinpoint where reality ends and imagination takes hold, refusing to let go like a tiger on its prey. I imagined being in a place of serene beauty and ever lasting peace, where the mind runs free and ideality reigns supreme. The moon shines through the white curtains like a future bride spying upon her potential suitors, playing hide and seek, ducking and weaving in the heavenly path it follows. Making my way to the car, I gingerly step on the fresh snow to avoid any unsavory incidents. A deep breath and exhale.
I am six. We walk around the puddles of water which during the day serve as the battleground of boats for the neighborhood kids. Hand in hand, I follow my aunt and mother as we stroll through the darkness, lit in patches where families forget to turn off their porch lights. The familiar path guides us from one street to the next into a seemingly never ending maze of entrances and exits. I pass by Irfan’s house and reflect on the beating he received in cricket today, wondering if he will show up tomorrow. Next come the high walls of the mosque lacking paint and finishing touches but abundant in wild bushes that grow on its perimeter. Another house that I recognize; a kid with a yellow bicycle and a solid third place finish each time.
I like this. There is a certain eerie silence broken by the mother’s discussion as she talks to my aunt about something vaguely recognizable though I’m the least bit interested. It had stopped raining some hours ago so the air is infused with morning freshness and a hint of crispness only found after the first rainfall of the season. A prisoner rose bush sticks out a gated metal fence and if not for the watching eyes, I would have plucked it.
I am twelve. It is mid afternoon and the sweltering heat rains down like a plague. I sit inside my fourth floor apartment, immune to the elements but taking notice of the constant hum of the air conditioner. Everyone is asleep.
Life carries on beneath my nose even as it comes to a stand still in my head. I sit on the head of the sofa and gaze out into the open as people walk back and forth in quick paces to avoid the tyrant sun. White flowing robes, casual wear, shalwar kameez dot the horizon and endless stream of Mercedes, BMWs, Toyotas, Mazdas zip by as if racing towards a prize. Everyone is in a rush, yet there is a beauty to their madness, a cyclic rhythm that pulsates like a throbbing heart. I lean my head against the sun baked window--line between reality and imagination is blurred.
Labels: life
Faraz Ahmed 10:12 a.m.