Waltz

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Sitting in front of a screen on which there is a blank space which will soon be filled with numerous figures we like to call words…..is like space itself staring straight into the dark abyss of empty matter where these words reside perhaps. Words which will like a wasp, sting and surprise you and me.

Realization. The mother of all agonies. In a simple moment, so much can be seen of the future, so much recalled of the past and so much wasted of the present. But how often do we treat the present like an abnormal third wheel in a perplexed reality which is precisely the tense and complicated romance between the past and future.

How often does realization ruin so many dreams. How often does it pile dirt on the neat folded sheets of the white trust.And how often does it simply close chapters and books that you so foolishly and so very majestically and beautifully entwined knowing how hard it was to tangle and untangle the words. Words which sting and surprise and all.

* * * * * *

The man sat there with astonishment on his face while he stared at the glass of milk he was about to drink. And while he sat there, in a far off land a cellist played the symphony that made no sense, and so much sense. And the painter sold the last painting he drew of her. In the empty street who was there running after the faceless figure in the crowd of people that no one could see? And in the dark room where voices disappear what was that light? The words written on the note–no one bothered to glance.

But the man drank the milk. The cellist played on. The painter stopped to look at the sun setting. The faceless figure wandered on. Who was there..was a mystery. The light went out. The words-unnoticed.

A million white roses appeared. Children played on. The sky changed color. The sparrows and the ravens and the swans–all danced. The empty hallway–remained empty on weekdays. Dust gathered on the table. The stars were forgotten in the glow of neon signs. The stars were remembered in the day light.

The writer…the writer sat staring at the empty space on the screen which would soon be filled with words. The writer sat there…realizing.

* * * * * * *

The brilliant cloak we all carry was a sham. No one understood why. We all understood why. Nothing was questioned. Or perhaps it was. But the train never stopped.

Realization is a benevolence and a sin. And we are all humans. That is the greatest paradox of all.

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