A mere Journal.

2^nd March 2015
7:30 PM

I walk along the reddish toned street. My thoughts wonder in to the wild which makes me take out my notepad. I'll have to put them at rest before they get across the dangerous zones of my heart. I type out, or rather, scribble off whatever my mind says. I let my fingers take control and they enjoy the much awaited freedom; the refreshing sense of liberation.

The buildings on either side depict the posh lifestyle in this part of the city. The corporate bosses run in to them to let their neck-ties teared off; yet again, another air of solace. A bit of greenery does peek out from here and there, trying hard to embark their minimal presence. The trees seem too insignificant beside those gigantic monuments.

This place has changed so much over the years.

My old home, the physical structure which I called ‘my house’ once upon a time was located nearby here. It’s no more. Not even the trace of it, the small congested villa. Instead, a sample of beautiful architecture has taken its place. A living example of how time has rushed out. Seasons have changed, the city has changed. Why do people change?

My childhood days, filled with isolated bicycle rides through the footpaths which decorated the roads, comes rushing in to my head.  A rain once a year would flood the roads and when that happens, it’d turn out to be an occasion of joy for us kids. The Arab ambience mixed with the conservative gesture of making paper boats and floating them away, the times of exceptional innocence. The pool of water, amidst the luxurious vehicles parked all over it, the effort we make to find spaces to float the products of our creative senses; it all seems like combinations of contradictions. We took efforts to make our lives look happy.

Breaking the rapid flow of my thoughts, a guy steps right in front of me with a ‘Hi’. ‘Sir, can you tell me how do I get to the Holiday villa’, he asks. A job hunter, his attire says it aloud. “We're in the same league young man”, my heart screams out. I direct him through the shortest path possible, after all, this place has turned out to be my second home, and the navigations should come easy for me. The lad looks pleased. He wouldn't have thought that was near. “Pay me a commission if you happen to bag the job” I should’ve said. I wish him luck with my heart. I know how it feels, I really do.

I continue to walk, the wind taking strength with each minute. The night is taking time to settle, with the stars starting to form constellations. The sky seems darker than ever before, or is it that my eyes are too tired to make out the real picture? Anyhow, I am almost there, my destination for the night.

I save what I just wrote, in to the pool of other notes; the treasury where my thoughts rest. I find warmth when I write. I feel lighter when I try to express. Isn't writing one kind of a retreat? In some way, a retirement, a withdrawal from the mess accumulated in life. A helpless attempt of the brain to fondly record those times when you let your heart simply relax. The moments when you watch your soul surrender, to the skies that have spread deep into the horizon. Those rare occasions when your eyes bear no hindrance and your sight hold no obstacle; you simply let your visuals expand, wide and long. From the brutal senses of reality, an escape, to the senseless beauty of fantasy.