Lonely Evenings

The candle flickered slowly, wondering if its existence is justified. The flame burned listlessly, moving restlessly within itself, tethered to the white flesh of the candle. Her eyes skimmed over its outline, resting on the point where the luminosity was the most intense. The thread within the candle seemed to yearn slow death, inviting the flame to consume her a little by little. Gratification indeed!

Salty drops of water tread cautiously on her beautiful eyelashes. A tear escaped a closed eye and streaked down the dusky cheek. There was no one to hold her head and comfort her in the worst moment of her life.

Her curly hair fluttered about in the wind; a wind that had been raging since last evening, when it rained like there was not tomorrow. Was there a tomorrow? Had it not yielded to today? It had been five years now. Yet, she wondered if being honest was the best path. Could she have persevered a little more—pushing that waning patience a little more than its specifications? Nothing seemed to make sense any more.

Then, she noticed the window shutters banging aimlessly on a wooden frame that had been around since her wrinkled grandmother’s time. That was a time when the household was filled with people, their voices and huge egos fed on success. As she leant forward to close the window, she noticed the tree standing next to the cowshed, outside her apartment complex. It had been languishing there, an eyesore on this plush complex that catered to neo-rich families brandishing their swanky cars as status symbols, almost threatening to drive over Marx if he ever came in their way.

The memories came flooding back. “He” had been her closest cohort and firm friend for a short while—a most handsome phase of life, full of fun, witty remarks peppering their oft-rocky relationship. Each day, they would pitch their wits against each other. And each time, he would yield quietly. He would listen with great intent, as she poured out her angst to a man she knew only as a vague reflection. Someone who was never there, in person, or in soul, but who was there for her, each time she needed solace from a madding life.

Her innate idealism and intellect had always been her strengths. They were also the biggest reasons for her great anguish. Each time a little beggar-child crossed her busy path to work, she would shed a silent tear. Each time she saw the magnolias placed carefully on her desk, she would jump about in joy. Her tender heart was well hidden in the cheerful, almost boisterous manner she went in about the world; a manner that attracted so many to her.

It was her cheerfulness that had brought them together in a strange twist of fate that both did not expect. She had never realized when they had moved so close together. He was there for her, all the time, just as she expected him to be. She even remembered wishing that he could’ve been there for her since childhood.

Times had changed. And now she wished for him, wistfully knowing fully well that was not to be.

The candle crackled loudly. She turned to look at it, a slow and deliberate movement so as to not disturb the melancholy that was helping her get over the bitterness and despair of loneliness. There were a million souls around, who could give her company and life her spirits on this dark evening. She craved none of them.

Here eyes looked on uncaringly, as she saw the moth kissing the flame of death, intent on attaining love or hell. “Love aflame!” she thought aloud. Those were the words she said each time she saw the moth enter the flame.

Five years had passed since she saw the same dance of death every evening. And all she had to say were these two words. But she had no one to tell them to. The one person who would’ve heard her voice was far away, having died romancing her, all in vain.

Yes Mom, I'm working on it!

It's been just a short while since I've moved from home.

But some things never change.
Remember to wear your specs.
Don't leave home without eating breakfast!
Please don't skip lunch.
Call dad at least once a week!
Don't work overnight. If you have to, eat dinner on time.
Hold your temper. And speak with respect to people who seem a little irritating.
Aaaargh! Well, Ok Mom, I'll try to remember all of this. Shakespeare would've been inspired by you.

Mom, did someone switch the lights off?
Well then, this must be it!

I'll be a good boy.
Where I'm going, there are a million angels, and a big guy they call God.
They say you don't feel hunger or fear or pain or hurt there.
Nothing affects you there. Nothing!
Not even the pain from being separated from all of you.


This life was good.
Would you give birth to me again;
caress me with your tender touch;
sing those lullabies when I refuse to sleep;
tell me those stories when I refuse to eat;
shoo away those monsters that hide under my bed;
or scold me with the love that only you are capable of?

I'll ask the big guy for just one more life. Juts one more.
I'll tell him it could be a short one, one that cuts short like this one, but one that gives me similar joy and pain.
Just one so I can come back and tell you how much I love you and Dad and Bro and of course, lil sis too.

It's getting late; and the darkness is calling out.
There are no lights in here.
I must go now. The little men in white robes are getting impatient.

And ah yes, Mom! That anger thing that you thought would get me killed me someday.
Yes, it did, but I'm working on it now.

Memories of a Past Life

The return of the prodigal.

While the others pack up their saddle bags and ride into the distance, the stranger stands caressing an elegant and shapely, but lonely Katana. Centuries of knowledge and conditioning lend him the wisdom of the brave. The Samurai smiles into a greying horizon.

Anonymity is a blessing, in every disguise. For a civilization that breeds emotionless thought-oriented action, the stranger is a clear misfit--one who thinks from the heart and not from the cranuim. He seeks not the redemption of the braves--death on the battlefield, but the ethereal beauty of the Sakura. A perfect bloom that would enlighten even the Zen masters. Nothing but the eternal beauty within can ever bring peace to the warrior within.

As the weary warriors exit the field, several souls depart, holding on to their emotional baggage. Theirs will remain a life unfulfilled, for they must live through each sorrow once again, until they learn to let go. That is the way of the Samurai--a still and thoughtless mind, a thoughtful soul, and a heart that feels and yet yields to the spirit.

The Warrior smiles, forlorn and lonely. This was a battle he never intended to fight, much less win. The minds of his cohorts lost their way to their hearts, they fought, for an alien cause--one that they would never understand. May their souls find redemption in the after-life. Theirs has been a battle in vain. The Warrior smiles forlornly, as meloncholy strings play in the background. This has been a good life, but the Katana needs to rest. The spirit is willing, but the bloom is yet to take shape. Deliverance awaits, as spring takes birth.