La montagne de l'âme.

Thursday, 6 April 2017

I want to walk again, barefoot, on wet stones, see them glisten under the heat of the sun and watch them go glassy as it drizzles. I want to feel the wind in my hair, feel the rain on my cheeks, and feel the tenderness, the warmth come upon me imperceptibly slowly. There won't be no rush, no anxiousness, I know that the world will be out of my reach as red, blue, orange and green cloud my mind, yet it will be at my disposal. I want to watch my dreams and aspirations extend without them becoming distant, I want all profound and pointless questions to leave me, as if they never existed before. I want to try and reach for that child in me, for clarity, for honesty and for purity. 

 The child in me is swaying in the breeze,
For her the skies stay forevermore out of reach.
She is gazing into the realm of mountains,
The distance to which she soon starts counting.

She sat herself on a big wet rock,
Not caring a bit about her frail blue frock.
She smiles and rests her chin in her hands,
She sighs and talks to the birds about her plans.

The pink parasol lies beside her,
It's the most cherished present given to her by her mother
She then remembers her face and remembers why she ran away
It's because her irrefutable father asked her not to laugh so loud, ever again! 

She frowns, picks up a stone and throws it in the river,
If only she was big enough, she'd stay gone forever. 
She'd stay beside the mountains and beside the river,
She'd laugh however and dance whenever.

"But only if I was big enough, I'd stay here forever." She mumbles and falls asleep on the big wet rock. 

I yearn for that child in me, who once sat beside the river. I yearn for the girl who knew nothing about indifference, who got piqued by others asking her to grow up. And I wish I didn't listen to them, I wish I didn't grow so old with them so young.

Here people are standing in their balconies, enjoying the rains. That's as far as anyone seems to get in these "metropolitan cities" and I am no different than them. The weather's dark, the wind is making the leaves dance, mocking our languid posture. And all I can think about is the mountain of my soul, all I want is this surge of sustained noise to die down and the smell of wet soil to permeate my very heart, so that it pushes me towards a totality of innocence, towards that laugh which knew no boundaries, towards that senselessness which never separated itself from others no matter how condescending they got and towards those glowing cheeks on which even my tears smiled. 

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