A Scottish Night and a Book – A Trip Down the Memory Lane
Perched nonchalantly on a wooden carved armchair, there seemed like an abstract galaxy of fossilized desires, charred ego and yielding silence of a defeated soul that once stood in the face of all ungrounded demons and insanity of immortal fears. It was the moment where the crudest face of my reality was all pervasive in the silence ridden with sense of my thickening blood and sinking heartbeats into the murk of night that was slowly reclaiming its territory across the horizon.
I shut the book and walked away from the hive, but could not help thinking over it repetitively. I felt an unknown bondage held by it only to draw me closer and closer with the onset of every new thought and every new flash of the light telling each other how stormy it was both in the mind and out of it. Wading into a contemplatory puddle of my past and an uncertain future, surprisingly I got carried away far more down the road than what I would have strolled past on any other given day without having so much going on in my head. With the worsening weather, the night was hell-bent on drawing its curtains to smother any visibility whatsoever in a very precognitive manner. The peak of the mountain was really testing the eyesight, while I was trying hard to cope with gushing wind blowing vehemently from the North Sea front. The might of solitude was laid bare in front of me with all its grace, often chequered by the sound of passing by caravans and lorries.
Even the merest idiot would have guessed what was going on in the back of the troubled mind, but ironically it was outside the domain of the conventional wisdom and tangibility to care about what that preposterous culmination had been through or what could have been the reason behind that outlandishly freaky disposition of a calmed exterior.
While on my way back, I realized once again with the thickening mist that my world was full of skepticism which was constantly being victimized by the virtue of its mercurial nature and its obsession with the dynamics of the flux. To be able to know that ‘Being over head and ears’ in love with mortality seemed to negate the very basis of a cathartic life that promised to look a return in the wake of even the most staunch of an opposition that could have come from within and even the sweetest of all imaginable looks could not have relinquished its presence deep inside my heart.
Have a nice life ............