The mood is different

The Rain

Chopin’s nocturne started to play in C minor as I began to pull over, and the rain slowed to whispers. There were no sounds of traffic, no passing lights, not even the wind moved. the rain beat on the glass and something in me felt disconnected, a little unworldly, lonesome. The world stood still, crepuscular and delicately poised in the background of a memory, a problematically perennial engulfing little memory.

The Journey

In a bookstore, a museum, on a rainy day through the windowpane of a cafe – on a chair, on the train, on the platform in the dark, on the bus, on the elevator: a traveller, a coffee connoisseur, a historian, a revolutionary man with many things to say who spoke a lot. He had a face with a face, and eyes that burned. I was tired.

The Mood


The mood is different. The leaves have all fallen. We seek solace in different ways. There is nothing but quietened birds and quieter rain, the darkness grows more pronounced.

At the culmination, will you fight or fly? Far away the air is warmer, the trees are green, evenings pink and quiet, there is a little decency far away. There is hum of distant traffic and no accountability.

The human condition


It has been so long, this sinuous journey of mine. It has been unforgiving and dense, but in its slow bends as if in candlelight and a song was playing from the sky, I was in awe from time to time. In such moments, very little mattered.

Somewhere along the way I have learned to see differently. So much has changed so quickly, from one corner of the world to the next very little tends to remain the same, and even less has remained with me. The little things in this material world provide more comfort and solace in the end. The little things are the same people and a few places, the feelings, the portraits yellowing in the corners, the conversations interjecting a favourite song on an old cassette–they always end unfinished, the bottles and vials of thick perfume, the ancient messages on the back of a tattered airmail envelope, a scarf still redolent of a corner in the world, and so on and so on, and nothing more.

In the end,
what is left of this material world? Of the seemingly grand things, the lavish things, the outward things that are so unnecessary. What about you underneath, what will be left of you? A photograph? A poem? A scarf? Simple objects of memory that will unravel the fabric of time just to rearrange everything so perfectly reticulated with an idea, to make someone wonder: look, it will always be alright in the end.

On this journey, the same things seem to go and return, beckoning, abandoning. I have learned that it is a cycle of death and recrudescence and one should expect things to pass as they emerge. So far, much has come and gone and the path grows more rough, more uncertain. I have learned to be patient and content, my journey continues, I feel that I am at a threshold, like when the roads and the birds and the people are asleep, and something stirs in the quiet hum and thrum just after midnight. All the golden things that could be true linger somewhere in the horizon, somewhere beyond the bend, and there’s music.