It’s the Sky I sing to, and the Sky I sing for.
You should know this. Today, I am no longer afraid of what people might have to say. If you had waited around for a while longer, you would have fought off your fears as well. Only today, I have a fear far more labyrinthine than the one I could have ever weaved when you were with me. A fear that hints at loneliness, at helplessness, at being stranded without a soul to relate with. You were clever in not having stayed back to face these fears. You were cruel to have left me to fight them all by myself.
I have never revealed your secret to your world. Neither to mine. You lured the only ones that knew of your truth over to your side. I had sensed you would try the same with me, and you did. Only, I resisted. Not because I didn’t want my colors to help paint your portrait, not because I didn’t want my soul coalesce into your absence, but because I have to answer to people. I have to live for other people.
You also owed answers to other people. You needed to finish painting the beauty of our world. If only you weren’t in such a hurry.
And now, in dark nights, when I sit alone munching at cookies, you have no right to come and disturb me, to massacre my mental sanctity and peace, the way you do. You have no right to use the estuaries of thought to seek entry into the ocean of my mind, at times when I’m least expecting you to. On Christmas nights, suffocated under thick layers of fog and loneliness, I expect you to call out my name. And every August, every drop of rainfall on my skin reminds me of your fingers teasing me, my face, my hands and limbs.
Today, I can’t sing into a stupid looking telephone, expecting your warm voice at the other end. I do not seek to sing Summer songs or midnight lullabies or Birthday couplets to you through the phone. Instead, it is the Sky I sing to, praying to it to ferry my melody over to you, wherever you are. And who would know it better than you, that it is the Sky I sing for.
You should know this. Today, I am no longer afraid of what people might have to say. If you had waited around for a while longer, you would have fought off your fears as well. Only today, I have a fear far more labyrinthine than the one I could have ever weaved when you were with me. A fear that hints at loneliness, at helplessness, at being stranded without a soul to relate with. You were clever in not having stayed back to face these fears. You were cruel to have left me to fight them all by myself.
I have never revealed your secret to your world. Neither to mine. You lured the only ones that knew of your truth over to your side. I had sensed you would try the same with me, and you did. Only, I resisted. Not because I didn’t want my colors to help paint your portrait, not because I didn’t want my soul coalesce into your absence, but because I have to answer to people. I have to live for other people.
You also owed answers to other people. You needed to finish painting the beauty of our world. If only you weren’t in such a hurry.
And now, in dark nights, when I sit alone munching at cookies, you have no right to come and disturb me, to massacre my mental sanctity and peace, the way you do. You have no right to use the estuaries of thought to seek entry into the ocean of my mind, at times when I’m least expecting you to. On Christmas nights, suffocated under thick layers of fog and loneliness, I expect you to call out my name. And every August, every drop of rainfall on my skin reminds me of your fingers teasing me, my face, my hands and limbs.
Today, I can’t sing into a stupid looking telephone, expecting your warm voice at the other end. I do not seek to sing Summer songs or midnight lullabies or Birthday couplets to you through the phone. Instead, it is the Sky I sing to, praying to it to ferry my melody over to you, wherever you are. And who would know it better than you, that it is the Sky I sing for.
