He stood silent... Staring ahead the charcoal blanket full of tiny stars twinkling brightly in the dark sky. The silver crescent moon hung over the horizon.
He closed his eyes and gasped, then drew the pale curtains over the windows.
The room fell quiet and dark, only the dim moonlight that streamed in through the window, made it bit comforting, though, it did not fail to appeal like a haunting dark dungeoun.
The place smelled like aged wallpaper, rust and somewhat of coffee beans.
Soon the thick dark clouds hid the crescent silver moon... The lake remained calm and still, as the glimpse of the beautiful silvery moon was overcast from view....
The leaves ruffled by slow breeze, the rats squeaked in their little holes, nibbling the bits of food, the owl settled on a thick branch of a tree...
It was dark, one would be afraid of even their own shadow... The bats were the only noisiest mammals outside in such dark....
The silent midnight hour, when the world falls in slumber, deafened to the outside chaos and noise...
While some struggle alone in the unpleasant dark, left bruised, abandoned and hurting... Some hearts grieving in silence, unheard, unseen...
Weeping in their loneliness... Unnoticed...
He stooped a little, his silver teacup was lying near his favourite velvet cushioned chair, he bent low to pick it up.
Why was he still awake so late? A man in late 60s, silver grey hairs, wrinkled loose skin, searching a cup in the dark...
He lowered himself to pick the cup, the chain on his neck touched the floor, the silver cross on his chain beamed as the moonlight fell on it.
He smiled, a content smile of relief, as he picked the cup and stared the cross.
"Somethings meant to occur..." He mumbled quietly and reclined on a chair near his desk .
A burgundy color diary was kept on his desk, he lit the lamp and the fluorescent light beamed in the dingy room.
He held his smile, the gentle, warm smile of knowing. . . . knowing certain things...
He was a retired priest, silver haired man, with thoughtful grey eyes, who treasured the wisdom sought under the sun. Lived as an interested audience, watching various dramas of life unfold before him. A keen observer of life, of things... Of the peculiar, little things, that many would fail to notice. Only now, with old age holding him in its clutch, he found himself increasingly critical of the drama submitted to him.
The night was frigid and still. The houses in the neighborhood loomed huge and imposing, and most people's porch lights were already off for the night.
He closed his eyes and gasped.
And then began scribbling in his diary...
"Everything in his time"
. . . Still carrying that smile, his mind busy in musings...
"We sit with our lives in the wrinkles of our fists, unable to comprehend or understand ourselves.
Sombre, dreary mortals...
Breathing...
Time, passing away with our breaths... Moments fleeting from us with a blink...
Beyond our will or power...
Absolute certainties crumble to dust.
All the metaphors cannot truly describe Life..."
He shut his eyes and pondered deeply.
"The weights that bring us down... Hold back our empty hearts..."
He paused and stared the withered sunflower kept in a vase on his table.
"Sometimes... But not sometimes...
It is always, worth the fight.
For One Day...
All that seemed far away, visible from a distance...
Will become clear...
The blurry ... Glimpse of that something familiar...
Something we had often known... All along...
Something known to our subconscious ... To our hearts...
Something...
Our beating hearts never forgot to remind...
Something whispered as a wish though agreed with a frail heart...
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