The joy of seeing it through,
to celebrate this beautiful in-between.
Sometimes I wish my co-passenger has read sonnets through. That when we talk about summer, that we both are reminded the summer times and blooms from pages and pens of the bard. That the summers we are talking about are the same summers that invoke the roses in question by Frost. perhaps, they are the same summers that bring about the meadows to bloom as the ones in Romance - where white flows the river and bright blows the broom.
Sometimes I wish the 9th grader when taking up English lessons reads, gets to pause and reflect the moment when James and Della catch themselves in a moment of realization of what the other has done for them, in the Gift of Magi. To just realize that in his coming days, maybe when he takes off to school, might run into his own Della only to miss her for what they call to be the many other fish in the sea. for the “it just didn’t work out“
Sometimes I wish my neighbour simply has a dusty old copy of Byron at his, that when he visits my mine, he exactly knows why the few pages of stars from a book I have been reading about has more than three bookmarks and seem surprised that I have inked many pages of little scribbles. But perhaps skipped the suggestion that it be maintained on my PC. And I wonder where would I store my dust? Contains the scent of the days I have inked them, the scent of the meal mother made that evening, the scent of a joyous tear at relatability, the scent of the pupper who was a companion for 16 years was still a pupper in my lap back then. So that he would find it relatable when I say I would rather have them as papers, with a wink.
Sometimes I wish, my friends have read Tagore, to say to keep the head held high without fear, when they do want me to watch out for decisions and advice to conform as it is the simpler way. To know what a herd is, to know what a summit is. That it might be cold and lonely up there, but the inflicted pain upon the summit is far worthy a pursuit than to dabble in dust in plains. That have they pictured the bloodied right hand of the old man Santiago, the rope that slides slicing through his will, the marlin that shoots to the sky and that sight although by all chance could destroy the man, but can never defeat him and that of his dreams about lions. Of that of sunny days and lions.
Sometimes I wish people stopped and stared, at the James Sant’s Fear, Courage and Despair, to see those eyes of the three women, to translate what it meant in their own lives. To digest it and see it through acclimatize in the mark of their personality.
Sometimes I just wish my immediate surrounding took it in. Took the time to take it in.
Put themselves in places and time that leads them to find solace in knowing what Levin found at the sight of Katia is to be found in themselves too. That they when they see it through, not in impulsiveness, not in reactiveness, but like that sip of a fresh brew on tenderly drowsy weekend mornings, to be cherished for it is. That one had the patience to listen, to empathize, to make and meddle and keep good times in the world, to see colour, to splash colour, to be kind where you can instead have the opportunity to exercise authority, to walk in fields of grass, to feel the contrast between wet-mud and that of the clustered blades of grass, to find joy in the innocent joy of a child to whom the world is still a place to thrive, to be present, to show reverence, to be the opposite of fickle, to show pertinence, to celebrate the joy of the knowledge of another, to give the chance to take in the very-thing, to do things that are just not to survive but to live.
To see the very same continuity inculcated in lasting to the end of the page and not given to flip of a finger for the next feed. Perhaps masking itself as the same continuity that the heart needs but the heads flips to convenience. That along with the flow the prose, or the bumpy endings of sometimes rhyming words put together in funny looking paragraphs, along with the sight of fading sheet of paper that is not shy to show its age, and when the heart and the mind caress this flow like that of freshwaters in spring fighting to go about but still kept within the disciplining creases, - character is built by ensuing insights. - Identity found in relatability. -This existence celebrated across time. And solace found and wanting to be found in this lifetime by a celebration of another.
Sometimes hoping that they had these dusty copies, to squash me down on my accidentally ignorant comments on their beloved pieces of art and to gently put me down with their own blooms and memories of summertime and to begin teaching a lesson on ..why the world could use more poetry.