It was weird that it sang at nights, not any bird would chirp a tune, before the sun yawns. It almost fooled me to assume nights had ended even before they started. The window adjacent to my bed, mainly where my pillow rests underneath my head, paints a dark tree outside, when the sun dies. Yes, dies and is reborn, the next day. I assume it sits somewhere on the extending branches. I could never locate, I never tried. The silhouettes of the branches looked like, a monster grasping earth about to pound on my window if I stared any longer. I'd keep my eyes off it, and so would my brain, off my sleep. I'm a light sleeper. I'll respond if you tell me that you have to pee, around past midnight -even when my face would pretend to be drugged and threatening. Why did it sing so, at nights? Sitting on the branches that carry nightmares. It was my company, a company I dreaded. But a sad hope in another way, that it could chirp, even the morning birds so, but the hope that if it's the one fooling me, I might still have some more time to sleep. Hope I'd search for -everywhere.
One fine day, bright sun, but not any brighter, sat on the sky, as if glaring at me. The voice was gone, I could feel its edges, cornering in my ears, it withered, but was still around, maybe inside my head. Maybe because, I was happy a bit that it leapt with the stones tied around its ankles.
It's quieter these days- nights I mean. Some days it would sing, some days it just wouldn't, or maybe it did, but the rain quenched its voice.
Today's night sky is like the one which bears hope and love, it should be raining in no time I suppose, nights with rain are still beautiful, nature weeps the joy of an end, a victorious end. But when it weeps through the morning, there's pain called upon us, like when an unfit is birthed.
The voice was lost today, once again. I don't know why I keep searching for it, not every moment but at least when I'm aware that it's not there. Not that I'm in love with it, it still petrifies me, the pitch of it, the darkness in it. Days are not what I count, days just go unnoticed, or are just too monotonous to be noticed, it is at nights that I'm flooded with the severity of thoughts that could exist. And when I just cannot rest, I search for the voice, to divert my thoughts, or perhaps just get lost in familiarity. familiarity is not about monotonous stretches but about how important it is to know your surroundings to its heart, to accept, to cherish it and know how parts, however small they are, are very important to you. Isn't this familiarity beautiful, isn't it gorgeous to live in something you're breathing since forever. We don't judge familiarity, it stands for what it holds, oldness. Familiarities, however wretched or coated with paint, means the same, it means a home. Or does it really? because I've some parts, some memories I'd never want to, even have the smell of it, again. Maybe familiarity is just oldness and we don't need to cherish it, we can if we want, to get comfortable with it, but not love it, and still want it, just for the sake of its oldness and its comfort, like the voice.
But there were times when I didn't feel anything, nothing bothered me. Like I never had any comfort zone, or a dream of my wedding palace. Today was one of those days- nights.
And I wanted to find this voice and end it, to know its source and understand, if it could explain anything, at all. Why was it chirping at nights?
I was in the terrace, for my room's window still chilled my spine. Up, open in the sky, I had better memories to wait with. That voice kept coming, but the source was unchecked, I couldn't locate. And then back to my old self; I realised that it is ought to be this way. Ought to be a mystery, or just a night bird singing to put itself to sleep. Maybe I was just too much into it, maybe I should have slept early, because one thing I knew was, it sang a little before the beginning of the dawn. And maybe, I wasn't supposed to hear it at all, and to mess it up.
It has been days now that the voice was completely gone, and those branches were just a part of nature now.
My insides feel like a new being, as if it has been this, all the way, every other day. And I know that it's not because the voice disappeared but because it existed, once. But now that it's gone, i don't feel empty anymore, don't feel that I've not praised or been praised enough. That voice, was all along the ways I crossed and lived, i just didn't notice it. It was there, always. And when I did, I grew, I learned, if not anything specific but then I learned how to learn, at least. I learned that how some things were just very beautiful unseen and unknown. That letting go was the most precious gift I gave. That things exist only to teach you, not much but how to be grateful for what you have, to love and live and not question your existence because it is planned, it has always been planned in ways that you'll decide or desire today, in ways you treat yourself, and love yourself and mostly in ways you believe in yourself and in the possibility of the existence of something that you need now, in the future.
