 This is not something that would classically be categorized as an article on media and entertainment. However I would like to share this little something that I have written with everyone who cares to read.
He walked through the
silken robes of the thickening fog. The sky reflected an arrogant blue gray
hue. An eerie wind whispered mysterious tales of irony. The damp smell of moss
and fresh snow embraced the nocturnal solitude. He walked on, alone, a solitary
figure, but with the arrogance of a blizzard, his silent footfalls muffled by
the soft, melting snow. The comfortable darkness mocked his progress with mute
disdain. He reached into his black overcoat and took out a pack of cigarettes; the
flame from his lighter flickered, a sharp warm light chuckling in the cold
December night. He took in a deep nicotine fuelled breath, the tame smoke
billowing out in confusion, lost in the condensed fumes of the cold air.
“What now?” he thought, a
question that had no apparent answer. “Yes indeed, what now?”
He did not know why he was
walking; neither did he have a destination. All that he knew was that he wanted
to walk—not run for a change, but walk. And so he did, his brazen body,
impervious to the harsh monochromatic night, only the dim red light of his
cigarette providing a quiet solace from the grey around him.
“Was that a light up
ahead?” he said out loud. ”It must be so, no one has heard of a mirage on
a December night.” He nodded in silent agreement as he walked on. He flicked
his cigarette on the snow, and it lay there, hungry for oxygen, intoxicating
the white stillness with the last pangs of nicotine.
It was a small cottage, an
unlikely oasis in the desert of solitude. A lantern hung on top of the oak
paneled door. A brass knuckle silhouetted against the pale golden glow. You
could see his face now, weathered, like the jagged rocks tortured by the
implacable waves crashing on them with their jocund impudence. His eyes
flickering like warm embers, hungry for a sip of life. His stoic stare echoed
the sound of the knuckles as he pounded them against the door, rhythmically,
confidently, almost with an assured insolence.
The door opened after a
seductive silence. She stood there, her hair cascading down her amber
shoulders, complementing the fine lines of her face like rhododendrons
embellishing a dried branch. A soft crackling fire complemented her warm voice
as she whispered a silent welcome. Her face, iridescent, refulgent, her eyes
that engulfed eternity, her smile that encompassed the infinite. Her eyes
reflected the fire, her thick, untamed eyebrows sheltering the incipient
desires of life itself. Her face, like the fine monotone of honey trickling
down a rosewood tree, her soul expressing itself through the mysterious
contours of her enchanting lips. She smelt like freshly bloomed daisies with a
hint of rosewood and the rain washed earth.
She smiled, her radiance
obliterating the afternoon sun. The gloomy night transformed into a celebration
of pure ecstasy.
He smiled back in amused acknowledgement, eyes
challenging her purity, her perception, her vision.
They stood there for an
eternity, an eternity that measured time with audacious impudence. Their senses
creating the symphony of being. The night had met her day, the sun his final
eclipse.
“Come in,” she said
finally.
And so he did, he walked in
to the warmth that was her.
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