Weathered cities shouldn't be a reminder of fallible nothings, weathered cities should tell us that the a new world shall born out of the cements of the old, sprinkling mortal hope, the kind of hope that says things will start looking up from the month of January. The kind of human hope that believes in the beginning
He liked tiny people, who could easily disappear in crowds. He liked that sense of flexibility they possesed, appearance and disappearance, transparent masquerades, hide and seek? So in a more personal moment, he concluded, verbatim,
'Life should be like a colorful sine curve. It should always oscillate between the extremes of finite things, it should change skins, take other forms, be full of mischief or else it might just get so boring and sad that one may cease living. People die everyday of quotidians, you know.'
Of course, he was talking about his life. He was a philosopher of sorts, a fool, if you may surmise.
Its scary to sleep alone in the hall-room with moonlight beaming out of your window panes. Red Moon.
You are not scared of ghosts or phantasms, those are for rowdy disobedient children, good boys sleep well. Good boys listen to what papa says. You are a good boy. You get a badge.
You hear the bickering sound of the crimson ceiling fan, something so brazen that it scares you too and your brave good dog -scarlett bitch 293 decides to whimper aloud like a hurt wolf, and then vanish in the darkness of the room. The night is starry and the moon is a sickle. The sky of a good state. You are all alone now. The night reddens. The usual.
You recall the state favorite horror story they taught you in school. Something so ghastly that it should always be brought to mind. Why do you want to forget it ,say it loud good boy,
'A spectre is haunting Europe. A spectre of commu....'
So in the Red State everyone sang the lullaby of dreamers. And there was horror. The horror.
Incoherent paper faces always bursting in and out like Dionysian revellers, pushing and shoving but always accomodating. That's a Mumbai local train with its thousand rain-tanned stories. Its almost like a crepuscular melange of humanity, with its audible babel and ocassional mirth.
Here, no one minds the menagerie the world sells. They just go on. Somewhere to go, somewhere to be.
For my part, I will respond to the smiles and smells, and the winks and sighs, to those cross eyed tears, to those poker faces in crowded spaces, to those dancing eye-brows that merge, to the thousand things my eyes ignore and perhaps I will know what I want to know. I won't use words. Words are inert. I will use my eyes and ears, and perhaps I'll love more.
I won't depend on language. Language disconnects, language is a barrier. Its complicated and corrugated, language hurts. I won't speak love. I won't say it. Instead I will use silence, because they say, that is how most great loves are.