If thoughts could be captured like grains of sand in a glass jar, so you could later let it sift through your fingers at will and each thought could be looked at, felt according to how circumstances were then. So a bad thought did in fact have a chance at getting better. Like a spoilt child did at boarding school.
The sky holds many blues, that are never-ending like the secretive pits of your eyes and the shadow of your lashes, that cease just before the contour of your cheek-bones. The hues of blues, and their hues too encircle your vision, leaving a bit of themselves behind, before the next shade started. This concentric-ness opened up to me, as I looked up into the sky, like the mouth of a cyclone, a graceful one. It were as if the world were upside down, and the tip was visible in the vicinity amidst the blinding sunlight that coaxed one of my eyes shut.
I long to be, where the stars cannot take me, where the vast expanse of sea spreads itself against the horizon, for I have counted the waves in an ocean of people. But there'll be no voices. Only the gliding of clouds, hiding and revealing the sun and painting its shadow-play on the surface of the deep blue to the rhythm of the music of the wind. This was pain and bliss both. Pain that lifted off my shoulders and unwrapped my soul to bring a smile that too played partner to the song of the wind. You are there.
Though you do not know it.
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