The faraway laughter

Water envelops me.

Spilling over to the edge of the horizon.

Falling away

into that

which I came from.

It's all around me.

Still.

The only sound I hear

is that of faraway laughter.

Waves tide over.

So gently

that you would blush.

Held

in their unhurried embrace.

Even the winds,

that could roar,

are gentle.

The Gods of the world

have forgotten this place

and equipped us with no armor.

All they left us was silence,

warm winds,

and a wily,

absurd clamor

that seems to arise within us,

jarringly,

at odd intervals.

We wouldn't be here

had the silence

not multiplied into its own kind.

You know the silence I speak of.

We've been there together.

We may not have met,

yet are acquainted,

in the absolute emptiness

that we sometimes carry,

and sometimes,

become a part of.

Time is noisy.

Petulant almost.

A spoilt child.

It runs away.

As you chase after it,

you realize

that you were looking

into the mirror all along.

Now you're further from it

than you'd ever be.

It's this game of

tag,

that is both

the war

and the peace.

Beyond this,

is where we've met.

Amid gentle

winds and

noiselessly stirring water.

Now,

here we are today.

Together again.

So I thought I'd ask -

do you remember,

whom did the laughter belong to?

Image Courtesy: Unsplash

Several moments in life define us. And then these definitions change with other moments. In between these moments, in the flux of change, is where we try to hold on to ourselves the hardest. When you're drifting away from the shore, all you grasp for is an anchor. And this is the belief I'd held as the truth.

Now, I'm curious to explore the concept of an anchor. What is an anchor? Is it something that exists or something that we create out of desperate hope for it to exist? Is it a weapon or a defense mechanism to keep us afloat? Does an anchor just mean holding on to what once was, or could it mean inching towards that which is grounded and near? The 5 Ws and 1 H of anchors as a survival mechanism is a fascinating exercise, as I (mildly) daydream.

Whichever way I look at this concept, what I come down to is a blob that lacks all definition, literally. In a moment, you could be a fearless warrior; in another, a cowardly fool; in yet another, a simpleton, and so on. However, there are those moments—the in-betweens—where you're undefined. Call it peace or calm before the storm; sleep or dreams or maybe even fiction, but you've had one too many of such moments of utter non-definition. The ones you've tried to desperately escape and sometimes are still blissfully lost in. This prose is about those moments. Seemingly calm, they feel anything but.

Here's to a Sunday of uncovering the memories of such moments of fleeting calm and wondering about the faraway laughter that brought us back to the chaos we call life.

Happy Sunday!