Midnight.
I love it. Everything is so pure. Everybody so unavailable. Everything so unconnected.
Midnight. The background of my imagination, the premise of my poems, the canvas of my writings.
At times, I step out. On most occasions, I don’t.
Yet, the midnight! In its complete glory of a newlywed bride and sometimes in full bloom of a secret lover, chooses to take over. I, on my end, just surrender.
Casting a spell, seducing my mind, also flowing within my veins, the midnight puts things in place to emerge as the most likely winner.
Midnight makes music my best friend. At the same time, it reminds me of the best friend, I haven’t spoken to on many wasted nights.
I’ve seen unlikely corners come to life. I’ve felt unfamiliar voices coming my way. With due courtesy to midnight, I once again see the storyteller, seated well past 12 am and writing this piece. It is perhaps 3.30 am or maybe 4 am, the writing continues.
The table lamp is no more in action. But the desk is still very much alive. The laptop is doped. Maybe it is the midnight, which is trying to trick me in one or the other way.
A drop of ink from the fountain pen lands on a blank sheet of virgin white paper. The mesmerizing voice of Sophie Simmons; well how do I put it, but, she seems to be anchoring a walk by the seaside.
Though simplicity seems to be at the core of this midnight. I still feel trapped by midnight.
Not many mid nights ago, I stood by the window. All I could see were the shadows of two disloyal lovers. These lovers had found their way in our lane, to perhaps make out. Luckily by the next midnight, their lust story was over.
The rains echo deep. It is after all the vastness of this midnight, which turn the rains into something much more unimaginably lovable. Then suddenly the aroma of wet mud takes over. What follows next is what I know as magic. Or should I say, the midnight magic.
But just like other changing things, this midnight too isn’t permanent in nature. The elements around it would automatically change.
I will still be here, imagining, dreaming, reading or simply writing. I feel happy for being driven and sense that I somehow enjoy being trapped by midnight.
- Virtuous Vociferous | September 09 | September Blog-1| Making of the story | 2018
I love it. Everything is so pure. Everybody so unavailable. Everything so unconnected.
Midnight. The background of my imagination, the premise of my poems, the canvas of my writings.
At times, I step out. On most occasions, I don’t.
Yet, the midnight! In its complete glory of a newlywed bride and sometimes in full bloom of a secret lover, chooses to take over. I, on my end, just surrender.
Casting a spell, seducing my mind, also flowing within my veins, the midnight puts things in place to emerge as the most likely winner.
Midnight makes music my best friend. At the same time, it reminds me of the best friend, I haven’t spoken to on many wasted nights.
I’ve seen unlikely corners come to life. I’ve felt unfamiliar voices coming my way. With due courtesy to midnight, I once again see the storyteller, seated well past 12 am and writing this piece. It is perhaps 3.30 am or maybe 4 am, the writing continues.
The table lamp is no more in action. But the desk is still very much alive. The laptop is doped. Maybe it is the midnight, which is trying to trick me in one or the other way.
A drop of ink from the fountain pen lands on a blank sheet of virgin white paper. The mesmerizing voice of Sophie Simmons; well how do I put it, but, she seems to be anchoring a walk by the seaside.
Though simplicity seems to be at the core of this midnight. I still feel trapped by midnight.
Not many mid nights ago, I stood by the window. All I could see were the shadows of two disloyal lovers. These lovers had found their way in our lane, to perhaps make out. Luckily by the next midnight, their lust story was over.
The rains echo deep. It is after all the vastness of this midnight, which turn the rains into something much more unimaginably lovable. Then suddenly the aroma of wet mud takes over. What follows next is what I know as magic. Or should I say, the midnight magic.
But just like other changing things, this midnight too isn’t permanent in nature. The elements around it would automatically change.
I will still be here, imagining, dreaming, reading or simply writing. I feel happy for being driven and sense that I somehow enjoy being trapped by midnight.
- Virtuous Vociferous | September 09 | September Blog-1| Making of the story | 2018
2 comments:
What a wonderful midnight 😊
Keep writing👍
Read it almost 5 Times already..... And can read a 100 times more..... Difficult to get over it.. . Amazing....
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