under a spell...

On a sun-kissed March afternoon, as the city worked its way towards monotony, blissfully ignorant of the life passing by, I along with the other souls adopted by this city, was happily keying in my life into random wastefulness of this orchestrated motion.

It was just another Thursday morning...twenty minutes spent checking on notes that have arrived from the parallel world over the time when this city sleeps...five minutes in getting the cup of tea to my desk, some ten seconds for plugging my ear-phones and most importantly ten patient minutes spent on picking the right tune for the day...Today, Beethoven is out to set the mood, playing Moonlight Sonata and I am scribbling as the monotony was broken by a visual from the past...


... a vague visual of folksy girl sitting under a tree, reading though the struggles of Bernini, hardships of Michelangelo, creation of David and his intense gaze on her as if he is standing right there mystified by her as she reads through him...a hidden smile in his anguish! Along with David, came Marie T. Walter in her fine yet simplified demeanor in which Pablo painted her, she is upset about Le Reve, and how she hate Picasso for over simplifying her...David is charmed yet wants to speak about the strong Roman Friezes, and Walter goes on with her take on agora's philosophy...as the afternoon passed by, Monet took the fancy of painting a beautiful picture of lilies n blue-silvery waters and with that the folksy girl was prepared for any emergencies what so ever, that could ever take her away from this pleasure of sipping tea dipped with Pablo's (Neruda and not Picasso) ink and dabbed with Dali's surrealism, a time of complete insanity...

It led to the creation of an unfathomable wave in her, one that held her back as she ached everyday to dive with Vivaldi into his classics, for those are the tunes for which verses couldn't be written.  Inching her towards a strong desire to taste the pleasures of creation...

Since that afternoon, a countless times she  has sat down to read Rumi's philosophies, curled up in her linen sheets with the written word, almost faded yet there...sunshine periodically visited them with agony and despair...and today Beethoven is playing his moonlit compositions again, the story still remains and keeps threading as this romance goes on...


You and I, our journeys coincide,

treading the same path, we have changed our routes a million times...
a million times we met, a million times we have bid goodbye...

You and I, mystified!

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