Momentary sadness splattered on my face. The crescent moon in the night sky looked like a brushstroke of white on a black canvas. Or was it my smile mocking me from beyond the earth’s exosphere? Perhaps this poet’s heart of mine that I would like to carry someday on my sleeves interpreted a natural phenomenon from a romantic’s perspective. I’d blame Wordsworth, Shelley, Byron, Blake, Coleridge and many such poets for leading me to the path of romanticism.
Either I had misplaced my happiness or I had dropped it somewhere along the way. I unlocked my past and dusted the shelves filled with memories that I had vowed I would never look back on. My fingers tried to trace the path back to my lost happiness in vain. A drop of tear quietly sneaked from my eyes traversing through my cheeks. Many more droplets of tears followed. I sat in silence in the midst of my memories. I could only wipe their surface clean but I could not turn my past into the present. It was humanly impossible. It still is.
I followed the gaze of my reflection in the mirror that hung on the wall ensnared in a timeworn wooden frame. Boo bear sat forlornly under the shelf gawking at me with his button-shaped eyes. His disarrayed smile dismantled some of my most cherished memories. All the dust of the past slithered through in between my shivering fingers. I drew the filthy curtains and opened the windows. The sun had already risen. I spectated the Tyndall effect along with Boo bear. He was with me when I had first read about the Tyndall effect in my science textbook. The curve of his smile used to be perfect back then. I realized in that moment I missed his smile as much as I missed mine.
I crouched in a corner with a needle and a black thread attempting to fix his smile. My effort wasn’t in vain. He smiled again with that perfect curve. Slowly I walked towards the window and scribbled on a piece of paper:
It’s just me and my thoughts,
And the endless silence
Lingering within me.
The voices that nobody hears but me.
Memories of the times left behind,
Play like a movie in my mind.
Wind talks to me secretly,
And I reply silently,
In a language, that’s only
Familiar to me.
Percy Bysshe Shelley was right when he said, “A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” I felt happy just looking out the window at the sun. The colour of momentary sadness was now fading. Boo bear smiled at me. I smiled back.