Hush, Love

Have you ever choked on your tears? Ever cried so much, that at some point no voice came out, but the mouth agape, and the silence felt leaden? Ever cried to a point where you said, "Give me a lot of joy, now that I've cried copious tears"?

As the saying goes, 'boys don't cry', and so can't I (often), so I imagine my tears and the catharsis they bring alongside.

So when Celine Dion asks the heavens to open up and wash away her salty stream in 'A New Day Has Come', I wait for that magic to befall me.

Like the Asian model in the video, who begins to unravel in her shower, either perchance or by will; I've tried reconciling my ego with my ether, standing under the forceful slaps of the warm waters

Just the thought of that exercise gives me goose-flesh of sudden respite.

Doth heavens actually listen to the woebegone outpourings, and answer them match for match? Thank God for that not happening, or we'd always be under a deluge, for this world is indeed Pandora's opened chest, smarting us all, turn by turn, unwarned.

And then, sometimes the wails cease, voluntarily: they've known the futility of waiting to be sheltered. They steel us, somewhere inside, oft not in a good way. The stings we received, become our antidote and soon, somebody else's poison. We pass the malady on.

.

Suddenly the resplendent sun rays in the video hit me too. A dark corner lights up. I wake from my reverie of hapless brooding. Is there something out there that actually thaws these frigid, steeled hearts, in a flow which bubbles in flute glasses and not in the moisture of the yes?

I'm still poring out of the window for an answer, a ray of light perhaps.

Will love's dawn fall on these dark horizons ever?

Blast From The Past

I'm walking back home, yet again. Another evening, and I can't get a taxi. Since the courts forced the government to phase out the old ones, I guess the numbers plying on-road has come down drastically, or so I get to feel like.

So, blessing the day I got myself a rented apartment close to office, I decide to make a move. So a la Ryan Reynolds in the starting sequence of 'Definitely, Maybe', my earphones get stuck in snuggly, and the music begins to unfold.

A song or two, to my present liking, and I keep pushing the forward button for the rest. Been meaning to write about the songs that get me, if that is what it takes to exorcise the demons within, I yen for something oft-heard yet still reassuring.

And we reach Robbie Williams' 'No Regrets'.

Suddenly the song strikes: aurally and visually. I see Robbie walking to someplace, with a leaking jerry-can of petrol (or was it diesel), leaving a trail of the inflammability behind.

How antithetical is the video to the lyrics (or have I missed the dark subtext?): he feels exonerated of the the gloom that palled his erstwhile life, in form of a reckless lover, and yet he's walking suicidally around town.

The evening has gotten inkier, and I can see my shadow looming in front of me, courtesy the pale yellow incandescent bulb hanging above a roadside tea-stall, that I've just paced by. I feel one with the protagonist in the video: been walking through these days, leaving a train of combustible vitriol in tow, which is about to catch up with me, to a fiery conclusion sometime soon.

I've neared the turn, and I'm blocks away from home, as the song reaches its climax, and Robbie is on the closing speech. I recall the trail catching fire somewhere, and running towards our man, him unaware. I sullenly pray for a similar spark somewhere in vicinity.

As Robbie delivers the coup de grâce, and pronounces his relationship "officially DEAD", the flame catches up on him from behind. I close my eyes, almost wishing myself to explode in an inferno.

It doesn't happen.

I keep walking on.