Contemplate

Some late summer evening, the warm wind bathed in this half-burnt pine forest will reach to your window. I hope the smell will take you back to the time when our intentions were frivolous, and we took pride in burning our love the moment we sneaked into each other’s minds.

We were flying loose then as we spent our inquisitive ideas with no commitment to reaching back. We didn’t wait for the wind to lift us from our dusty grounds. Rather, we were the wind, relentlessly gushing through all the corners of our imagination, kissing the sky, and then falling back to the dust. It was the time when the simple yet impaling idea of growing older, every passing second, excited us to find all the hopes and sorrows of this world, all the hopes, and sorrows in each other. Well, I guess the time was not our ally back then, rather, a constant reminder of our ephemeral fate.

Time had no memories then, and we had no past.

But soon, these memories will start to fade away as the evening sun will start to melt right in front of you, and will slowly fade away with this infinitesimal time. The wind will become much gentle; though, lastly, it will collide to your window, as a subtle reminder of that infinite course which we once saw ahead of us, but didn’t promise to reach its end, together. The wind will shyly dance with your blue curtains and will die in peace the moment it catches your eyes. It will die like those slow nights that we once hoped will never end, abruptly. Once again, you will find yourself in the dust, hoping for such winds to lift you up to the sky. I wish to take you back to those half-burnt memories to the time when we had not buried our treasures under the earth, and our hands were spared from the mud of dejection.