My glass painting

I watched the lively figures dance around me. I heard the laughter my heart ached to hear for many months. The voices and the words spoken, the gestures and the thoughts, the moments were perfect, but something troubled me. My perfect world now seemed to hold as much value as a glass painting held up against a hard wall. It was weak and feeble and could easily be broken into million pieces. It was ignorant and innocent and it paid no attention to the old wall that supported it, it paid attention only to the beholder. The glass painting ever so beautiful glistened as the morning rays embraced it. My glass painting hid itself behind the true light that it reflected off itself. In a room full of people, I felt empty. Amongst loud music, dazzling lights and attractive faces I felt plain. The insane pleasures of the world dint seem to distract me anymore.

I tried to get lost into the story of my painting over and over again but I realized I was the painter and I didn’t need to get lost into it anymore. This was it. It was only a beautiful painting I would like to glance at once in a while. When beauty stops mesmerizing the mind consider the entity jaded.

What did distract me was a tap on my car window as I sat with my friends engaged in useless conversation. The tap was almost a tap on my conscience, and for the first time I felt alive, I witnessed beauty in the beastly world that stood painted outside my window, against no wall, only deep, dark skies.
I saw half a man who balanced himself on a stool and begged for a rupee or two. I noticed the reaction of the others in my car. Then I realized that these people were a part of my beautiful glass painting, and not the world outside. They existed only within big mansions and fancy cars; rich food and glamorous dresses. They were ignorant, just like the painting. I reached out for whatever I could find and handed it to the poor man. What attracted me more than dazzling lights and attractive faces, what held more beauty than my glass painting was the smile he returned to me as he thanked me for the five rupees I handed that half man who balanced himself on a stool. The signal turned green from red, I rolled up my window and shut myself inside the hollowness of my beautiful glass painting, once again.

your voice

Your voice. It brings me to life. It makes me want to escape the hollowness of the world that drags me deeper and deeper into its emptiness with every passing minute. It makes me want to fight again, to fight the darkness and reach towards light. I feel alive. Each whisper of yours adds another breath to my inert body. Your voice serves as my causeway into my own precious world that I have taken my whole life to build with memories and experiences. I often forget about this world, as I am entrapped in the web that this madly spinning world has woven for us. Your voice reminds me of who I really am. There is this void in my life that is created when I can’t hear you or feel your presence and that suffocates me. The sun light feels warmer, and the breeze feels cooler after I’ve spoken to you. Even though you exist miles away from me, I can still sense you right next to me. Your soul travels through your voice and reaches straight into my heart. We’re one when I speak to you. There is a particular higher level we reach, a greater connection that is formed as we talk late into the night. I cannot sleep if I don’t hear your voice. The nightmares of the world unravel upon me and leave me feeling lonely and cold. But then you call, and everything seems fine. My nightmares are then resolved into my dreams. The comfort that your deep voice enthralls upon me leaves me off all my insecurities. I can sleep well like a baby. Your voice itself is my bedtime story that once my father used to narrate to me on foggy winter evenings. The bedtime story which always had a happy ending.