Songs Of The Sparrow

Old songs make me nostalgic. They make everybody nostalgic, do they not?

With me, it is different. Time stops. No, there are no memories or flashes from the past. There is just Now, still, quiet, afraid to move because it knows that it has frozen, very precariously and anything frozen is very brittle.

Who wants to break, even if it were a moment in time?

The song plays in tandem, drawing notes that make the moment's frozen heart flutter...everything turns a shade of black and white, the sky turns overcast, the sun decides to hide behind a cloud for a while - what sun would want to cast light on the frozen shadows of yesterday?

Winds calm down and there is just that very gentle breeze flowing in rhythm, lest it ruffle a feather...what wind would want to ruffle feathers that are cast in stone?

There is only bird sound, the gentle chirping, mostly sparrows. No koyels, no crows, no hens. Just sparrows, for their sounds blend in with the past, like sugar in water. Neither happy nor sad, their songs walk in tandem with bygones.

The clock stops. The second hand, especially, must stop. The Now will pass if it doesn't. The Now will pass giving way to another Now...and nostalgia is about one frozen Now.

Ghosts lurking in the dark shadows of your home become real, and if you looked closely enough without moving one bit, maybe you would see them too. They are real in that one moment because they can live only in that one frozen Now. Not outside of it, and so they show. For you to see.

But suddenly, the song ends, the sun pops back into place, the air gushes into your home, your ghost-vision fades into nothingness, the heat filters back into the air, sounds become audible again, that faraway radio, that honking on the main street, that wailing child, that television, those footsteps above your home.

Of course, you have the bird songs still...but are they strong enough to pull you back into their timelessness? Perhaps not. Perhaps other sounds are too loud. So they try...they do try, early in the morning, just before the sun rises and soon after it sets, they assault you with their songs.

Now you know why everything freezes at twilight. Now you know why sparrow songs can be heard only at that time.

Now you know.

Nobody Knows

Cry a little, let those tears flow,

Laugh out loud and candles blow,

Maybe tomorrow the sun will shine,

Sit up in your cloud with the silver line.

Maybe tomorrow the doors will close,

Maybe tomorrow coz nobody knows...

Coz you know its going to end one day,

It matters today but just for a day,

God knows its an impasse and so do you,

Its unreal though it feels its true.

Maybe tomorrow the doors will close,

Maybe tomorrow coz nobody knows...

Entrapment

He keeps himself busy. So he doesn't have the time to keep checking the calendar. He has refused himself the pleasure of counting the hours since she left but he cannot seem to ignore days. He knows it's a Monday on a work heavy day, a Friday when work closes sooner than usual and so he unconsciously knows that it has been a while.

He can count it. Quantified, it seems like a short time. But he knows how the days have dragged and stretched out cruelly in front of him and nothing he does makes them rush by.

He is happiest at night when several hours pass by without his noticing - he sleeps and before he knows it, seven hours have rushed by.

He looks forward to nights greedily for not just this reason but also because he counts days only before he sleeps.

1, 2, 3, 4 , 5...

He wonders how people live from day to day knowing that they may never stop counting.

He knows he is not one of those people. He knows she will be back. He is grateful.

He wonders how life would have spread itself out thin had he not known her. How the length of time would eventually wrap and mummify him entirely and he would drown, smother, choke and die.

This time, it feels like a brief reminder of those days that are not his in reality. Just a glimpse, he reminds himself, so I can know and acknowledge what I have.

He wonders if that is precisely how her days pass too, and he knows.

They don't.

He wonders what her realisations are and immediately draws back that thought - no, he does not wish to know. Now he has one more thought to not dwell on, one more alley that he must avoid, to not think of what her learnings are lest he attract those learnings into his life.

He finds it odd, how he is trapped inside his own head while the winds blow free and wild through his house, carrying her scent but unable to penetrate his mind. He senses something familiar but is too far away inside his own world to notice.

She wonders what his learnings are, and if he caught her wafting through the breeze.