It was a dusty sky with the black mist, somewhere they were gray, somewhere brown but in all colors there was a mixed dark. She never liked the dark color, but these days she is kinda habitual to it. She no more grieve if the sky is dark or blue simply because she can’t change it, rather she would see it the way she wants. I don’t know if she loves to play with her hairs, or it’s her habit, but she beautifully caressed her hair, as sincere as a mother to her growing infant, she touched every tip of her falling hair, and watched through it, like a lost sight, she kept gazing at the slants of her short crimson hair. Yes her hair were short, maybe she loved that way, and I too loved her hair that way. She left the existing slants of hair that she was caressing subtly, and swiped it to the right, taking other bunch of hair on her right hand, and started gazing at every slant as if she was worried about the short hair which don’t seems to grow in a natural pace.
Few white doves flew in front of her eyes, but she was too busy in her hair, I could never fathom what she might be thinking, but I thought she was thinking something deep. I knew it was not about her hair maybe. Two and half decades passed in hush, and she was turning 28. She felt like it was yesterday she played in the summer hedge, and the spring wind, winter mist and thin rains beneath the heavy clouds. She was always afraid of storm, but these days even the thunder lost itself in the alleys of the city, so she can’t even hear the proper roar of the thunder. Probably she is thankful for that, “it’s turning spring” She thought. The spring zephyr could be felt in the ambiance, with this spring she would be passing another year of her age. Lots of things happened in two and half decades of her life, probably she tried to count them in the slant of her short hairs. Words and thoughts were swinging inside her brain like the thunderous wind of spring that she used to be afraid of, she knows even the tornado loses itself in the tumult of the city. But she had her own tumult inside her brain that was rupturing her own solitude. Regardless of how much she would talk in a day, while she crumbles in her bed in the night, she always feel alone like a lonely creature searching for a mate. She felt in love multiple times, she broke up multiple times, sometimes things doesn’t work the way we thought them to be, but she doesn’t worry about these things that much. Of course they are the usual things to remember about for her, but she leads her own thoughts counting the straight lines of her hair.
She smirked at her hair, “27 years of my life passed in hush” She regretted for how old she had been. There were young people sitting right, left, behind and back of her, for a time being she envied what she realized on those youngster. She couldn’t feel the black mark beneath her nerdy eyes, which seems obviously hidden by her glasses. Life is a mirth, really it is, but she can’t laugh properly after what life has meant for her. It’s really funny, that she felt it was yesterday that she cried for a dolly, it was like yesterday she played football with the boys without any worries, it was like yesterday she bathed her chest open in front of her father, it was like yesterday she danced in her short skirt that she always loved, But:
She knows she has grown up that she can no more walk on her open chest like boys does, she can no more play football with the boys, she can no more hopp in her skirt, she can no more bath in front of her father, she can no more cry for the dolly, she can no more say a thing to anyone when she is afraid in the night. No Matter how the ages has passed, she felt that there is still a tiny child inside her, “Yes a tiny child who doesn’t think twice to do things that she likes, she doesn’t care about what people near her would say, she just get things done that she wants.” And it was painful for her to realize that the tiny child is somewhere burned inside her own heart. She can’t throw away the stripes of her bra which always hurt her, she can no more walk in the street without them, she can no more wear those loose clothes in which she is comfortable. It was like yesterday she cried after the dripping blood from her crouch when she got the period for the first time, and she couldn’t believe that she was turning 28. The painful tampon still hurts her, she never got used to with tampons no matter how many periods she has passed since then. All the memories were flooding inside the synapses of her brain. “It’s funny” she thought, but not her hair, they were beautifully tighten in the back of her head, she cafune’ herself as much as she wanted, while oblivion of the spring dust, I watched her gaze from her back. She kept gazing the nothingness, she kept gazing at something that was lost, she kept gazing at the empty sky, she kept gazing at the empty verses of her life, she kept gazing at the wordless book of her memory, she kept gazing at the soundless song that was swaying in the air. Her Gaze, that was really mysterious.
Thank You! For More: Painted With Words