Stranded

The sun surrenders to the horizon. It leaves behind layers of amber and rose gold clouds that gradually fade to deep indigo. Near a valley, dusk shrouds the grandiose contours of the distant mountains in its dark embrace. Faint artificial light from the surroundings seeps into the sedated span of land, and the shapes on it transform into traces, residues, or souvenirs of Earth’s past. We bury bygone days deep in some distant gorge, but the past returns; it persists. Letting go of the past is impossible because it forces us to reach the present. As the time ticks, the ambient sound loses steam, a hush cloaks the bustling metropolis, for the world itself exhales after a long day.

When the day dissolves into dusk, hearts often flit with a chronic feeling of emptiness, with a sense of self adrift. Memories surface like a geyser. The day of the first meeting, when it was still spring. An absence of a cinematic, dramatic introduction or a stunner smile. Nor was there an amorous look. But a wink of the eye, something revealing, a promise to ride along on unknown detours that awaited both. Surely there were nods, “I see you”, in loops, endlessly. Conversations had minor significance. Silence spoke louder. Both souls were grounded in adoration, affection, and detested lust. The acorns of insignificant happenings, exchanges, compelled an oak tree of attachment to flourish. A gracious, shaded place of return to find the majestic presence of tenderness, for completeness. That was the unspoken reasoning in their cerebrals. Memory of the first day and the many chance meetings that followed is never stored away in a keepsake box, but in countless remembrances, between the creases of old skin wrapped around frail bones where a curve is not supposed to be, but is. The prophecy that ends nears with small signals.

Both are without any souvenirs, only images – vivid paintings of fleeting moments of their time. Voice, hum, words evaporated like the morning dew, but the resonance still amuses. Each squeak in the wooden floor held one partner’s mewl; it was audible, but elusive when they were near each other. Now, when all the foliage is in slumber, and clocks suspended in waiting, silence lingers too long!

Few begin meditation to seek sustenance from the unseen. The ghost of love appears without startling. The dwelling fills with the aroma of a throw blanket, the other partner adored. Lying on a sofa, a pallid, inert item is the only bodily way the escaped soul returns. The past feels tangible! Though both are at opposite ends of wonder, miles of emptiness swallow any sign of life, where only friendship sprouted once but never took root. They stand still, both immobile with rationales of their making, staring at an unfertile land where the lush meadow of their affinity wilted away.

Age brings rare precision in perception! They begin to read that the only way to love is to take enormous risks, many of them, and accept a constant loss of oneself for another soul, or with another. It is spadiceous- like a reddish-brown color where red and black merge, yet still reveals their presence in the new character. Describing love has constantly challenged languages. No musical notes can fully capture the rhythm or scale necessary to define it. All our possessions fall short of paying homage to love. Yet, once immersed in it, life glows like a radiant star.

Stranded, one must bleed alone in the ruins of their making. Love rarely dies with parades and observances. It starves the muted soul, while nobody checks in with an injured heart. In desperation, a fortunate few find an anchor in hope and faith to atone for past mistakes and misplaced love. Gifts and prayers help heal wounds, the saying goes. To discard the unnecessary, to negate the false, to let love sprout (again).