Dear Friend of my Heart,
It is the most delightful occurrence, in the most daringly playful of my opinions, when a verse meets a verse, reherding the dispersed curse of Magus… but the worse is yet to drag us to a starry night’s brilliance… waiting for “that one blooming beauty to fall open for you and me”… at the count of thee… one… two… wild and three, both me and you and you and me… rendered free by poetry…
There once, not too long ago at all, lived a tale, of forgotten mysteries, of intimacies and intricacies, and the cunning beauty of a guileless snail. Attempts so frail to summon the words that could appropriately a queen’s new mystery hail, spiral downwards like a falling feather, only to be caught in a mid-air swooping loop made by a bird who nests on the top of an ancient tree… so, again… at the count of three… one… two… wild and three, both me and you and you and me… are rendered free…
This afternoon, as shadows of various intensities danced beside each other, and inside each other… there was another, the shadow of the nib of my pen, called melancholy. Inspired by a shadow-inference of the shadow of the breeze, followed by a hearty sneeze(I have a cold), I wrote thusly upon the paper, my words written twice, once in blue and once in the shadow of blue: From reading words on paper I have moved to reading shadows on leaves.
Let the readers of shadows be grateful to light….
eager to her from you,
much love,
Prashant Nawani
[prʌʃant nʌwanɪ]
Story Of The Footloose 
Prashant. I may have known the shadow of melancholy as I do keep one now, but I know nothing of a known light that could bring back such a melancholic experience within you back to life. I may try however the limits of my efforts may reach a full stop soon… But I’ll have you know with this sweet emotion, nothing in this world can remain entombed. Perhaps I’ll give you my limpid eyes with cherry blossom trees hoping that you see the meadows glides with the sun and the breeze.
Get well soon..
April. The melancholy I know is blue, as it is sometimes felt, and not black, as it is sometimes felt… it might even be a dirty yellow… hmm… it is midnight blue and dirty yellow at the same time… it is not without a tinge of sweet in the coffee bitterness of dark aspirations…
What ever you give with warmth will be met with much gratefulness.
Thank you. I feel well already.
I felt the same way. But perhaps, I brushed aside mine a long time ago. I stacked it in a place they called the storage room for the flightless birds. Until now, I still don’t know how to handle them. In fact, I made jokes about them even made friends with this surge of melancholy every now and then, trying to get a hold of every hook that’s within my reach. The cycle never ended. It didn’t end. Even when I am around groovy words and gardeners. The fact that I had to accept and live with it, marred the days sullied. It grew nastier and meaner each day. But I can’t even be the bigger person. Soon this suppression will come to an end. Yet, I still reek with uncertainty and fear. And so, I go out there. Really trying so hard. Sometimes, I go home defeated. And sometimes, wounded. But I have no one to share the burden. Like an anxious nurse, I nurse myself back to good health. Praying that the next time will be one step closer to feeling ease. But then, the fire that used to push me to go beyond this melancholy had already been depleted. So now, I am back to square one… grasping for air.
please excuse my confessions, I hope it didn’t drag you down even further away.
Well April, this is the place to confess stories with or without the spices of fiction… I am glad that you find company in my words as I do in yours. Melancholy or no melancholy, there’s meaning in expression… thank you for expressing.
Yes. I am grateful to light — to the light of you pen, and the shadow it casts.
me too, Carrie… sometimes one is afraid of beauty… I was today… for a little while… but the shadows bought me back.