A Writer's Melancholy

I am watching the rains in evening. I look up and see a beautifully unique sky. Half of the sky, the part which spans over my head, is smeared with clouds that are draining down and the distant half of it is moonlit with the white full moon so prominent and distinct on the mundane heavens that it suspends like a beauty spot on its gloomy visage. This decorates the expanse of the sky with countenance of a newly wed bride, expressing a quaint sadness blended with sublime beauty. People witness her beauty only to that consented limit, yet admire and cherish forever its sublimity. I look to the sky and marvel how it is draped with cloud all over, except for that small distant patch with the silver moon, just like the form of a bride whose entire body is clad except her beautiful face. So beautiful is this sky that it could evoke tenderness among stones. I reckon this sky is like a partitioned land, a neatly carved piece of it for the clouds and the other for the moon, as if the moon and the clouds have fought for their respective shares. But I cannot stop from marveling how the raindrops which originate from clouds cannot detach themselves from the influence of moon. They shine ethereally in the moonlight as they descend from the endless firmament’s bosom. Their beauty is unforgettable due to handiwork of moon rays. This is how it always is with partitions. The architects of partition may try to separate physically what they seek to divide from each other. Never, however, they accomplish in absolute terms, bereaving them from each other's influence. These estranged components, notwithstanding the whip of partition, are bound to sway each other in more than many ways. Sometimes making their purport more meaningful by that influence. Just the way the marble moon beam bath the translucent raindrops and make them look extraordinary. 

I sit by my window and rest my head on its frame, my small orifice to the world beyond my confine. The rain kissed zephyr affectionately runs her fingers through my hair and spells herself all across my tired body. I observe the grass waving quickly and the leaves cradling musically in the hands of the breeze. They shine benignly for my seeking heart and draw tears in them. Often when I am deeply hurt inside, my eyes flow under the spell of such unrestrained beauty, as if nature assumes such loveliness to allure me to share my sorrows and let my cry in her lap. I have known over the years that these tears are wild and beyond my control. They flow at will. They are reckless, they do not heed to my esteem. They come out ignoring where I am, with who I am. But I understand. I understand why it is so. When life is full of unfulfilled longings, and the heart is tired of pleading and being let down then the tender sweet beauty of nature and its visible affections in the fragrance of the wet earth and the numbing charm of its gentle wind assume the form of my lover and hypnotize me. And before I realize, my hurts melt into tears and start flowing as they would have in my beloved’s embrace, kind and compassionate and receptive to my laden love. I hide my face and cry more. I become disenchanted with reality. And that disenchantment brings me the reward of heightened love for nature. I attain a sort of melancholic peace in the bosom of the balmy ambience.

I turn to nature, this time consciously. I notice how the drenched grasshopper seems blind but hops, perfectly to its targets on the glistening grass. Both blend with such perfection that it is at times difficult to tell the insect from the lawn. The band of crickets sings abruptly yet with a predetermined success of finding their mates. Frogs leap after each other on the muddy grass as if they have been unexpectedly released from long incarceration. They grow fond of one another in the immediate scenario and unabashedly move ahead to more gratifying indulgence under the rain. It is a rainfall of euphoria. The plant leaves around, dance everytime the rain drops land on them. They merrily toil in receiving the rain drops and carrying them gently to the ground by bending their forms. Everything everywhere till my eyes can survey is bathed and soaked and shines in an enchanting shimmering hue. It is a mesmerizing scenery. I smile. Not for long. My melancholies return.

I wonder vaguely. Why can’t I know the beginnings of my sorrows and the end of my joys. Why can’t I convey everything that mires my heart. The hiatus between what I feel within and what I am able to say strangely become the lines of a story or the verses of a song I write. In those lines someone may find a relation and through that relativity I discover pleasing company again. I remember the hackneyed adage 'write from your heart' and wonder if I do that completely. Mostly my deepest thoughts, stay unexpressed in even the most detailed of my writings, poems and stories. The deeply personal nature of my torments makes it impossibly difficult sometimes for me to share them. After I have penned the last word of a poem, there is still a nagging residue of feeling that begs attention, but it quickly reconciles to obscurity. It is not that I do not try to achieve absolute expression. The truth is that certain things in me howsoever weighty, do not demand expression. They are habituated to anonymity, they are better off that way. They prefer the dark comfort in the depths of my heart, unshared and unexpressed than facing their fears of popular rejection or earning embarrassing infamy for their host. Most of my melancholies stay inside me. Despite every endeavour of nature to relieve me of them, they remain trapped by will. Despite nature's design to stir my fingers to the will of my mind to write, they don't find words. Such are my evenings at times.