Building a Mystery

Sometimes when I sit at my desk on rainy Saturday mornings and see the raindrops lining the bare tree branches I wish they would just stay there forever and everything around me would just come to a standstill. Maybe that's why people take on photography, to capture a moment in time and keep that moment, revisit it to relive that moment, publish it to share that moment and hang it up no walls to surround themselves in moments that were once. But then you slowly start capturing moments and letting go of memories, pushing aside your own lens and letting the machine do all the work. The charm of reminiscing a rush of emotions is slowly slipping away into the hands of applied science which builds us a mystical collage of events. Some days I just wish to walk down a road without carrying anything in my hand except the feeling of blood rushing to my fingertips. Not having to look for a picturesque photograph in every blink and taking with me a trail of every step I took. The feeling of just absorbing and not conceptualizing.

Of all the things that matter

Carefully place the book down, open the first page and feel the warmth of the clean canvas nibble at your fingertips, itching you to take a splash of color and write a story. You slowly edge towards the ink, flashes filter the mind and the eyes desperately move from one end of the room to another trying to find a narrative. But blank pages are complicated like that. They are like starting from the beginning, opening your eyes once again and giving yourself the chance to reconstruct your identity. But beginnings are so cliched.

So you pick it up. The feather threads tickle and you start. Somewhere in the middle, somewhere in between you make the first line. The first letter you pick has no relation to anything but who's looking for one. One letter follows another and soon you realize the blue has infested the white and there's no turning around now. You look for places of refuge to rewrite the script but it seems impossible right now. You take a step back and think. What do I do. What did I do. But introspection too is oh so cliched.

And then the palms sweat but devise a plan. They decide that much has become too much and the page turns. To a new beginning. To a new chance at questions. The feeling is refreshing. The feeling leaves you little hollow in places and complete in others. But who's checking for holes, we're all just looking for new beginnings to happy endings. Leaving that feeling the only non-cliched one in a lifetime.