P.S.:On Forget-You-Nots

Fall in itself is not of much help. In fact, falling leaves, carelessly carried away by the wind awake in me that tenderness for you. I can see you through the falling leaves, I can see you tenderly like you are. And it all stands like a testimony against my pledge for forgetting. It is as if nature silently plans to tear me apart, to disrupt the silence I've been trying to install over you.


Where do I go wrong? Is it the sun, or the gentle light of the moon, invading my room uninvited every night. They're all contriving to silently speak of you, to carry your name against all odds. So I feel like a fragile willow in the wind, bending under the wind of memory. Everyday. Living under the routine of remembrance. Sort of an aggravating state of the mind that I find it hard to reconcile with. My sense and sensibility at odds, no evens to fit in for a change. I'm willing to make them even, to give an utterance to an oppressing silence that I had decided not to voice before. Second thoughts might be an option after all. I'm a kaleidoscope of states; the tenderness I get when pieces of nature spell your name; followed by the feeling that I have for you and that I can but acknowledge; and then the sour denial, for I'm holding on to the realm of sense still; even more, how much I loathe myself for my inconsistency, for my inability to keep a straight line.


All those intricacies that shamelessly form, that eventually make up a complex of my states seem to have a personality of their own, like a woman wishing to have a room of her own where the pen could flow freely on paper guided by her trembling hand. I wish I could chase the thought of away, you are the disrupting thought. Yes, I keep chasing you away, but you have your own ways, of stubbornly returning to haunt me, to destroy the frailty of my stillness and then mercilessly leave.

And then I try to embrace forgetting in attempt to be in the rights, but what standards decide "right " or "wrong" anymore?I am entitled to make judgements of the kind?The proportions of sense and sensibility invested in this judgement stand on moving sands. My own faltering, my own vacillations make me want to turn my back to that frightening scale that supposedly sets the standard. I'm undoubtedly under one certainty: I'm not to judge those proportions because I'd have a take a honest look at myself, at the massive emotional structure I possess and whose complexity I successfully fail to grasp. I can't throw myself in a mad quest inside that maze, I'm not prepared to meet the Minotaur yet.