Bride of the Wind

by sunil on January 26, 2009

Being is a fate of choice. Becoming, is a question of worth.
Between the door ajar of being and becoming life trickles slowly.
Your life like any others is a story of questions and answers.
You blindly cling on to the answers for a while, only to let them go later: to fly away, free and far; to whisper echoes into the blanks and spaces of your receding memory.
Spaces that you don’t know how to fill otherwise.
You just seek more answers. But then, what are answers anyway, but soon to be questions?
He thinks of all these with his head placed tenderly between her breasts and pubis, over the scaphoid of her belly.
She is asleep. And soon he falls into sleep too.
In the tiny miniscule of a moment of their orgiastic love making the questions and answers had faded away. Into erstwhile spaces and blanks.
From the supple childhood right through the vagaries of the youth they tell you so many things imaginable about love.
What they don’t is what to do when in love?
In love you are left all by your own.
With your own spaces and blanks. May be that is what is love.
Then it so invariably happens: we wish to walk through the long corridors of this endless maze with the sunshine of our thoughts watering the plants of our laughters and sorrows.
In the summer the daisies smile.
After a while we might realize it is endless because it is a circle. A vicious circle, a circle we have bound ourselves forever unknowingly.
As the winter falls the light fades away. The daisies wilt.
Seasons circle.
If an answer is a singular radius of the memorable past, a circle can never expand; never be able to embrace the growing arms of the future.
And without growth a conscience ails. You suffer with your questions?
If otherwise the story is different, questions and answers sublimate. We both sail in the boat of myriad dimensions navigating through the spaces, filling the blanks.
And one summer morning long ago, I had seen how the lines of light had runneled through your tresses when you had woken up from beside me after we had made love all night. At that precise moment, I knew I had seen the most beautiful of all the things I had ever seen in the history of my life. Or will. I felt as if I was not seeing myself from the outside of me for the first time; I was so overwhelmed that I wished to see it every morning for eternity.
I wonder if a Kokoschka would have felt as much when he painted all the blanks and spaces of his amber canvas into the bride of the wind.
I just wonder.
After all these winters, She still sleeps with her rodin head on my shoulders, her curve snuggly arched against me.
The spaces and blanks have been consigned to the ostriches of oblivion.
She gets up hurriedly from the bed and smiles levelling her tousled hair.
On the wall behind, hangs The Bride of the wind.


Bride of the Window

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