Reflections
In the evenings, when the window is ajar, you see her. She has just returned, and her existence is quiet. She slowly drifts away from the worldly perspective, into her mind. She’ll take off her heels, you may catch her eye in the glass shelf, but remember to look away, because there is nothing but loneliness in those longing eyes.
When she makes her way to the bathroom mirror, that is where you see her completely, examining herself and the cascading evening hue. She will wash away her face, the dirt of the day will go down the sink, and on some days, when the sun is too bright and the noise is too loud, she prefers to take an evening shower.
She’ll change and will sit on the bed, but then, she has to survive, and reminiscing is not a very brilliant form of survival, so she will take a deep breath and make her way to the kitchen.
She may see him, but he is never there.
Looking around is a punishment, nothing satisfies her; everything drifts her away from reality.
And so, the conclusion derived, would be the choice of having a very unpleasant form of cuisine that would be enough to pass the time.
And after long, when the evening sets, the disease of female loneliness stands at the gate, asking to come inside. The feeling never obeys.
When the birds go back home and the chirping ends,
When street lights flicker and turn a bit blend ,
When the street deserts and cars go wend,
When things do not go as they intend,
That is when she will think about the lived solitude and feel the pain of letting go of rare moments in life.
“The owl of Minerva spreads its wings only with the falling of the dusk.” -Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel
When one has always lived in their own presence, the taste of love feels unique; it takes over the pain and gives the illusion of lasting forever.
But does it, ever?
Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows?
Only those who have experienced it can answer.
“After this most gracious creature had gone out from among us, the whole city came to be as it were widowed and despoiled of all dignity. Then I, left mourning in this desolate city, wrote onto the principal persons thereof, in an epistle, concerning its conditions; taking for my commencement those words of Jeremias: Quomodo sedet sola civitas! ” -Dante writes on the death of his beloved Beatrice.
The window is still ajar and you can still see her. She sits near to it, a table lamp on, white lights appear cruel to her; they expose her.
She sits here tonight.
She sat here last night, and the night before and the night before and the night before.
But there was a timeline when he would read her aloud, poetry of Shakespeare, absurdism of Camus, existentialism of Sartre, nationalism of Tagore and illusions of Dante.
Yet his favorite remained Rumi and so did hers.
And even before he occurred, and his happening changed that fragment of her life, back when days were just events of past, present, and future, the way they became after him, as an occurrence passed and the life came full circle, and the end of the cosmos was near, on those days, the window would be ajar, and you would find her sitting near it, a table lamp on, and the ghost of him lingering around.
For she is never too far away from us; a part of her lives in every dreamer.
