Editor’s note: Over the past few months, we have wanted to introduce a new format to this beat. Though the section is supposed to be opinionated, it veers more over self-expressionism on most occasions. For both to co-exist, we came up with a simple idea. A piece written by an author will be subject to the opinion of at least one individual. While this will be not be carried out for all pieces, it will provide a platform for further discussion, and thus, more opinions. We hope you enjoy this format. Your feedback is of utmost value to us.
He looked ahead, straight into an infinite horizon. He had nowhere to go, not a single direction he could call his own. And thus, he could go anywhere. He took a humungous gasp of air, and with that, a pinch of hope, and started walking. Aimless, but determined. All that he had with him were a few blank sheets of paper and an undying pen. And a pair of wings. Of course, wings!
“I have hope,” he thought, “and, thus, I believe.”
But hope in what?
Belief in what?
Belief in whom?
He was brave. Oh yes, he was! Brave, but unsure. He never lacked the courage to spread his wings, but was always unsure of where the winds would take him. But today, he was not going to think of the consequences. Simply walking would not get him anywhere, he thought. Yes, he was going to trust his wings.
He, thus, spread his wings, stretched them to the limit to which they could be stretched. His mind began racing as he felt the air beneath his wings, as the winds began to carry him to a completely unknown destination. He was gasping for breath. His heart hammered within his chest. And even though he was tempted, he did not open his eyes. The winds finally let go of him. He gently floated to the ground and gradually opened his eyes, expecting to be greeted by blinding lights. On the contrary however, there was darkness.
He was in a room enveloped by darkness. But, there was warmth in this darkness; a certain very uncannily pleasant essence hovered in the air. There was a window through which the soft light of dusk nonchalantly glided in. And in that mellow light, he found a poem lying in his arms. The poem smelled amazing; so pleasant was the aroma that the atmosphere was complete. And soft, so soft! The heart of the poem was soft. Instinctively, he grabbed it, wrapped his arms tightly around the poem. His breath was shaking.
“What are you thinking of?” the poem asked, a beautifully deep feminine voice, perfectly garnished with a few pinches of huskiness.
“I don’t know,” he began to answer. “I am just so calm right now. I am so aware of everything – this cacophony of silence, every grain of light that is streaming in through this window. I am just so calm. I am at peace with myself.”
The poem smiled a satisfied smile and he found himself doing the same. He glanced at the sheets of paper which he had let go off, as he put his arms around the poem. This time, however, there were words on them. The sheets were not blank anymore. His pen was still undying.
And there he sat, in his moment of truth, in their moment of truth, where no emotion mattered. Thus, he sat there smiling, embracing a poem.
Illustration by Bhumika Ray