I am a twenty year old girl who has just found singing for the first time, and you are the melody that keeps clashing behind my closed teeth. Your name fights, syllable to syllable, colliding against cartilage and making a boxing ring out of my larynx. The vocal coach hums a sweet tune, but my trapped-bee-buzzing might sound a lot like screams if I opened my mouth. Singing and you are much like each other, a language I do not know, a note I cannot reach, a tune I cannot hold. My voice box is a desert- dry and empty except for the occasional cactus and tumbleweed. You are the rain, the assured violin notes of a master violinist universe that plays the music to which the sun, moon and earth all dance to. The curtains fall and rise in a melody of their own. The dance ends, and begins, and ends. I sit alone in the auditorium and wait for syzygy but throughout the settings and risings, it never happens even once. The universe plays dice, the people play dice, and not once in all the mathematical probabilities and coincidences do the stars align so that you come back to me, as you were.
Some nights you try to convince yourself that you never loved her, but that it was only the familiarity of her laughter in a room full of strangers which drew you in, that the twinkle in her eyes was only so endearing because it reminded you of the night sky, but then you get up to look out the window and all is dark. The moon has hidden behind a curtain of grey clouds and the stars seem to have dimmed. You laugh as you realize that even the universe doesn’t know what to do without her- how can you expect to be able to put yourself together ever again? And as the moon peeks out guiltily from behind its veil at that moment, you start to miss her with a ferocity you never knew your tired bones held.
“It was a hot summer night, right in the middle of July, the day I decided to run away.
I’d had enough, you know? Didn’t want to be pushed around by anyone anymore.
I knew what I wanted in life, I knew I was different, and I was ready to go satiate my wanderlust, find my destiny.
And what was that?
It was to look for madness.
The kind that is untouched by greed and untainted by grief.
The kind of madness that is alluring and heartbreaking at the same time, the madness that exists in the stars and in the stargazers, in the moon and it’s worshipers, the kind that only increases with the coming dawn, fueled by the golden of the morning.
The madness of the waves as they reach out to kiss the shore over and over again, of the ocean as it tries to caress the moon in vain.
Sweet madness, filled with melancholy.
I thought I had it all figured out, how I’d catch the morning bus out of that sleepy old town, off to big cities and adventures in the pursuit of madness. But the stars has their own plan for me, because sitting in the long green grass of the park I had played in all my life, I found you.
Eyes closed but facing upwards, you were the definition of peace; you looked as if you were a part of the grass and flowers itself, rooted to the ground and so, so still, but then you opened your eyes and I fell headfirst into their grey chaos. Your expression held such agony, it clenched at my heart, and yet I was mesmerized, enchanted, cursed, unable to look away.
That night, I went looking for madness and found it.
But what I didn’t realize was that madness could ever be so beautiful, so dangerous, that madness could ever be you.”
Image taken from here.
It’s 2:22 AM, and it’s been an hour since she went to bed, but you’re still up, aren’t you, still sitting in front of that screen, bleary eyed and exhausted, listening to this band she never liked but you’ve fallen in love with?
You scroll through your Instagram feed, head bobbing to the tune, when you come across a post where someone has likened their beloved to both the sun and the moon. It is a beautiful piece of writing, one that makes your heart ache with the wish that it was you who had written something so filled with emotion, but then you stop, and you think about her again.
She cannot be the moon, you think.
No, she is entirely the sun.
The moon waxes, and the moon wanes, you see, and some nights, when the darkness gets too much, it even disappears.
But the sun, my darling?
It’s permanent, and so is she, with her tempers and her flares; the sole point that anchors your universe, providing warmth on a chilly day and thawing your frozen heart.
She’s strawberries, and she is sunshine, and berries and unadulterated laughter and the smell of freshly cut grass.
You’re oranges and lemons, and the melancholy darkness of a crescent moon, when all is quiet, as if the leaves themselves mourn the disappearing of that sliver of silver in the night sky.
As different as night and day, as east and west, but don’t they say, opposites attract?
Image taken from Tumblr.
It was late by the time I was picked up, but I didn’t mind. Today, you see, there was something special about the evening.
It wasn’t the clear tapestry of hues that it usually was, not at all, rather, today it was just blue, simple, plain, blue, but the color enhanced the beauty of the full moon all the more as it played hide-and-seek with the opaque grey dragon, the sky their playground. I was mesmerized by their game of chase, gazing at the sky enraptured when I realized, it didn’t really matter if you leave and never look back, if you never think of me ever again; what happens to us doesn’t really matter, for at the end of the day, I would always be alright as long as I had the night’s allure to share my melancholy with, and I realized with a start, I’d found another piece , the fourth one, within the grey veils of the moon.