Dear Moon,
It now seems routine that each time I travel, you accompany. Whether you peeped out from the mountains in Punakha like a perfect moonrise, or raced with us from Shillong, or over the weekend when you played the perfect game of hide and seek as we lingered in the cinematic corridors of the Lingaraj Temple. You made that familiar appeal to me last morning when I couldn't decide if you were the sun or the moon.
You came across as a prototype of a perfect circle. Veiled with the clouds.What a beautiful game that was. Entangled, you stood out. Like a piece of music from a song arrangement that lurks in the subconscious. As if intended just at an individual listener. In our constant contention of who will be blindfolded, when I was, I did not miss your beauty. I could almost smell the orangeness of it. You appeared flawless, for a second, and then you were not. Leaving behind a trace of translucent clouds. Through which you could not be seen.
Like friends and friendships which are omnipresent even when not visited by the regime of quotidian ceremonies. Like that region of faith when one believes that our dearest ones never leave us. You are.
I wrote this letter to tell you I enjoyed your playfulness a lot. You seemed pretty solemn about it. And that is rather remarkable. Miles away from me through the month, how enticingly you return to each place I visit. As if you never left. Like hope which was forcefully strangled and boxed, and how it still emerges victorious. To surprise. To make me strong after the initial disbelief. To be veiled, sometimes in invisibility some other times in translucence, but all the while knowing -- you are.
Bewitched,
K.
You came across as a prototype of a perfect circle. Veiled with the clouds.What a beautiful game that was. Entangled, you stood out. Like a piece of music from a song arrangement that lurks in the subconscious. As if intended just at an individual listener. In our constant contention of who will be blindfolded, when I was, I did not miss your beauty. I could almost smell the orangeness of it. You appeared flawless, for a second, and then you were not. Leaving behind a trace of translucent clouds. Through which you could not be seen.
Like friends and friendships which are omnipresent even when not visited by the regime of quotidian ceremonies. Like that region of faith when one believes that our dearest ones never leave us. You are.
I wrote this letter to tell you I enjoyed your playfulness a lot. You seemed pretty solemn about it. And that is rather remarkable. Miles away from me through the month, how enticingly you return to each place I visit. As if you never left. Like hope which was forcefully strangled and boxed, and how it still emerges victorious. To surprise. To make me strong after the initial disbelief. To be veiled, sometimes in invisibility some other times in translucence, but all the while knowing -- you are.
Bewitched,
K.
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