Dear Reader,
The past few days have been quite a rush for me: Deadlines, exams, social responsibilities. And in the midst of all that, my Internet connection was down. And I can keep on making excuses, only to try and make myself feel not-so-upset about missing Blog Action Day.
I am truly sorry for letting you down, and not living up to a commitment I had made.
Sayan
Heavy laden clouds loomed in the austral sky, threatening. The leaves whistled in the wind, the long slender trees swaying to the tune. From the fifth floor terrace Max could see people scurrying for shelter from the imminent downpour. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment in a perfect rapture; the wind tousling his hair, the warm hard concrete at his feet.
He dreaded the forty-five kilometre journey back to where he lived. The distance, still, may not have been that great, but the thought of the streets bustling with motorists and people and, not to mention, the odd critter wandering about itself exhausted him. Then there was the rain: Motorcycles didn’t come fitted with windscreens. Max detested having to make this courtesy call. Disdain clearly showed on his face.
At times, the choices that one has to make aren’t choices at all. That is, unless one wishes to totter on the other side of the thin line that divides what is viewed by the all-knowing, collective mind as acceptable from that which is not. How Max enjoyed doing just that: totter, barely on the right side. But that was before he began to realise that even a schoolboy’s jape is supposed to have some ascertainable point; before he realised that he was being branded as the rotten apple of the lot; before he realised that wary mothers warned their children about kids like him; before he realised, suddenly, how alone he felt.
The first of the large droplets of water reached the earth – it had started to drizzle. Max looked towards the north. The sky wasn’t as dark there. Beams of sunlight had stolen their way around the clouds. “Look mammy, God’s blessings,” he’d tell his mother as a kid. He flipped open his cell phone and dialled a number from memory.
“Hey, is it raining that side?” he said brusquely into the mouthpiece, and then uttered something with the semblance of gratitude and hung up. He drew a tentative conclusion – maybe he could reach home before the rain got to him – and kick-started his motorcycle.
Inspiration, unpredictable as he is, never comes by when you want him to; never when you’re peering into the screen of your laptop, trying to get inspired, or sitting on a park bench on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, thinking. It was when he was approaching a crossroad, battling his way out of the midst of a flurry of vehicles, that inspiration flashed by.
He thought, “How does one find something that isn’t lost?” A good part of one’s life is spent searching: Searching for answers, a purpose; for happiness; for peace. But when were all those ever lost to begin with?
Against common sense, spurred by an obscure thought, Max turned left at the crossroad where he should have turned right. For turning right would see him lying on his bed, at rest, in another half an hour’s time. For turning any other way would eventually lead to him being utterly lost in an alien city; a city which was intolerant to “outsiders” like him.
A smile began to exude, slowly turning the corners of his lips upward. He felt excited. His heart fluttered.
Nobody dared vouch for his sense of direction, but Max felt he was on the right track, heading north. Maybe he’d find a new, shorter route? The possibility, however, slowly evaporated as the roads narrowed. Narrower, and narrower still, the roads became, until the curbs on either side scraped at the cars that presumed too much. Tall concrete buildings gave way to precarious, shabby hovels.
Decided uncertainty contorted Max’s brow. All the excitement was gone. His heart still fluttered, even faster now, but it was different. It filled him with a steadily escalating sense of foreboding. He felt stupid. He wanted to cry; bawl like a baby just separated from its mother.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” he told himself, hardly believing it, and carried on, refusing to ask for directions.
After a series of wrong turns, he realised how foolish he’d been. He finally conceded, stopped and looked around for friendly faces. As Fate would have it, at that very moment there was a power outage. Everything was thrown into darkness; everything seemed bleak.
The sporadic motorist plying the street flooded it with light. Max could discern the vague silhouette of an auto-rickshaw in the distance. Auto-rickshaw drivers were notorious in this city. Robbery, theft, rape, murder – the culprit, inevitably, an auto-rickshaw driver; the victims: Innocent people who either were tourists, or couldn’t afford their own vehicles. But, they knew every nook and corner of the city.
Max approached the auto-rickshaw, his steps fraught with uncertainty. A face glowed in the glimmer of a burning matchstick as the driver lit a cigarette. It was thin and drawn, and had a pallid complexion. The deeply set eyes had an unkind disposition, the drooping sacs below them adding to the effect.
“Excuse me, brother.”
He turned and loured at Max. A chill ran down his spine, and he began to stutter.
“Ah-h, c-could you… could you… d-direct me to… towards Cunningham Road?”
The driver breathed a pall of smoke and said in a disgruntled voice, “Take the next left.”
“Thank you,” Max managed to utter as he turned around abruptly and started walking away. The surly man yelled after him, “Come here a minute, boy.” Max looked over his shoulder, apprehensively. The man was coming after him. Max was suddenly aware of his built, his broad shoulders, and heavy arms. And was there something in his hand? He couldn’t tell. The man closed the distance between them with huge, vehement steps. His gait exuded hatred.
“Hold on there!”
Max braced himself, clenched fists; every muscle in his body screaming. His nerves were as taut as the strings of a bow. He never backed down when a fight was brought to him.
“First you take a left, and then carry on straight till you reach a fork in the road. Take the right lane there, and after, follow the signs. It’s about twenty-five kilometres down.”
Max stared at him, shocked, or surprised rather. He let out a heavy sigh, and let the tension flow through him. The disdain in the old man’s eyes had been replaced with warmth. His face bore a softer expression, something Max couldn’t read. He was grateful and told him so, and left.
******
In retrospect, Max realised that he didn’t quite know what he had expected to find from his unseemly misadventure. But, it wasn’t in vain. For he had found something he would hold close to his heart for a very long time to come: He had found God in the person of that human being.
Words, they have much to offer me. At times, when I feel hopeless, or defeated, or just hate the skin I’m in, I seek solace in the tiny blue marks I scribble in my journal. And that which I seek, I do find in ways inexplicable.
The words I write put me behind a lens, a rose-coloured one perhaps. If anyone happens to chance upon them, and decides to tackle the curlicue they present, one sees a facet of me that I know is a play of the light refracted through the lens. The words I write don’t define me as much as I define them. They don’t form me as much as I form them.
But I rejoice in the depths of the anonymity that my words afford me. As if it’s a place I could run to at times when I hate this world. Is ‘hate’ too strong a word? Maybe it is. But I’ve said it once, and I couldn’t care two hoots.
I want to turn around and give nostalgia a big handshake, and never look back again. For I want to change for the better, maybe. We all have dreams, don’t we? Aspirations; things that we want to be; things that we want to do. A part of which defines who we are. But, I still can’t figure out who I am. And I still can’t figure out why we carry on like we do.
Maybe we’re not meant to know such things. Or, maybe life is just this way: An endless river, with no beginning, no end, and no purpose; no answer to the question ‘why’. Or maybe it’s just for us to decide, to choose, how we see life.
Have you heard the song “Words” by the Bee Gees? It’s a great song, with excellent melody; and with men’s voices sounding feminine, like the Bee Gees’ sound. Don’t they sound really good? I cannot make sounds like that. So, they must be good. And they are legends of some kind, aren’t they? To have their songs sung again, and again, by gay boy-bands all over the world must mean something. Or, are they turning in their graves at the very thought of it? Wait, are those guys even dead yet? I don’t care, anyway. Care presses me down too much. I wish people I love would not care so much for me. It’d lift that pressure off of me. It’s not like I don’t want to be cared for. Just a tad less should do just fine.
I digress too much. Well, after all, this is supposed to be my “rambling” journal. That makes my mind “not so feeble”. See, how easily words can be used to throw a thin veil over everything?
Thumbing through the pages of my (old-school, non-electronic) journal, I chanced upon this piece of paper with these words scrawled on it…
When things go wrong as they sometimes will;
When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill;
When the funds are low and the debts are high
And you want to smile, but have to sigh;
When care is pressing you down a bit –
Rest if you must, but do not quit.
Success is failure turned inside out;
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt;
And you can never tell how close you are
It may be near when it seems so far;
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit – It’s when things go wrong that you must not quit.
I’m pretty confident that I couldn’t have penned such stuff, so I’m going to have to credit it to the dark figure shrouded in mystery, covered with a veil of namelessness, Mr. (forgive my assumption) Anonymous.
Dear Reader,
Being brought up in one of the most cut-off provinces of a third-world country, I’ve always wondered how, in my own small way, I could make a difference in this world. I don’t want to be a spectator, and watch this world blow past me in a blur. I want to make a difference; a better place for you, dear Reader, and me. Is it too much to even dream of it? What with fighting selfish battles just to keep in step with the world, you and I have forgotten the rest of our kind, those who need our aid. At least I know I have.
But alls not lost. There is hope still, shining like the moon over a deep blue sea of calm. Shining in all its splendour for each to see, and believe. So, let us come together, dear Reader, and bask in the rays of hope.
If this is starting to seem a bit banal to you, I couldn’t agree more! So let me get straight to it.
On the 15th of October, 2008, no less than 20,000 bloggers are going to be making themselves heard, in a collective effort to discuss global issues, problems, and solutions related to poverty from their own unique viewpoints. You, dear Reader, can be a part of this and give hope a chance.
They say that the pen is mightier than the sword. If that be true, let us, together, prove them right twice over and keep hope alive!
[I can't express how deeply I miss my days back in The Assam Valley School. Sitting out in the veranda this evening reminiscing, reliving the good days and the bad, I remembered the day I had to make this speech, and how my voice had quivered and how tears had rolled down my cheeks when I had said the words 'Thank You'.]
This is a profound moment for The Assam Valley School: The resolve to work and excel has come to signify the institution. At this moment our alma mater demands commitment. Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the urge to draw back, and always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative, and creation, there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: That the moment one definitely commits oneself then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. Each one in The Assam Valley School is committed to the cause of this wondrous institution; to the change that this world so desperately requires. With the strength, the will, and the determination that would even move Providence, this community is but a step away from the ideal.
This is not the outcome of the effort of an individual, but of the collective effort of a thousand odd individuals, each unique in his or her contribution to the building of this family, without which this family would have been incomplete.
Today we are gathered in this hall to celebrate the commitment and the effort that has gone into the successful endeavour that is The Assam Valley School. From the person wielding the pen in the Headmaster’s office, to the person wielding the broom in the classrooms and corridors; from the person bending over stoves in the school kitchen, to the person with a rifle in the cold darkness of the night; from the pupils who frequent the teachers’ conversations, to the pupils who go unnoticed: It is the dedication and hard work of these souls that have made The Assam Valley School what it is today. Even to the most undiscerning eye the effort of these people will never go unnoticed even though they may themselves remain unrecognized. To these people, who’ve been my family, my friends, and have made AVS more than a second home to me, I owe half of everything that I am today. And all I can say in return are two small words: ‘Thank you’. And this I say with all my heart.
I take this opportunity on behalf of The Assam Valley School to extend our heartfelt gratitude to our Chief Guest, Sir Mark Tully, whose presence has enormously impacted on the AVS community. Sir, this moment, we shall cherish for life. We deeply appreciate the presence of Mr. BM Khaitan, Mr. PK Khaitan, Mrs. JJ Garwood, Professor Ranjit Bhatia, and Mr. Rajeev Takru. Your mere presence has enhanced the reputation of this school. I thank you for your gracious presence.
The scene is a dimly lit bedroom. Joe, Dan, Mike,
and SC are sprawling leisurely on the floor staring at the ceiling. Loud music blares from the stereo.
Joe: [Sounding lost] It’s been awhile, now… we should make a trip back home. You know, go check out school, and see how Monty’s doing…
Mike: [Turning to SC] Dude, turn up the volume, will you. Joe’s at it again. [To Joe] There were no “glory days of the past”! Why do you keep rambling on about it, man?
Joe: Hey, don’t get started with me on this! We had some good times, we did!!
Mike: Oh yeah?! Tell me, Mr. Blast-from-the-past, how many of our friends from back home are you still in touch with? One? Two?
SC: Cool it you two. Now’s not the right time, okay? I’ve got to get this crap figured out before tomorrow.
Dan: Let me have a look at it. [Ponders over the implications of the mathematical theories scribbled on the paper in front of him for a very long time] Give me a moment; I’ll have this figured out in a jiffy.
SC: Thanks, bro. I owe you one.
Mike: [In an excited tone] Guys, stick to the code! Hot chick, across the street!!
Joe and SC, suddenly animated, perform a series of complicated manoeuvres to reach the window. Dan stays put.
Mike: Yo, Dan! Don’t go gay on me, man!! Stick to the code!!!
Dan: Stick your bloody “code” up your arse, my friend. I’ve got better things to do.
Mike: Like what? Whacking your brain then wanking off what’s left of it? Give yourself a rest, dude.
Dan: [Looking furiously at Mike] Give your tongue a rest, will you?!
Mike: Alright, alright! I’m backing off. No need to get all het up and sweaty about it.
Dan: Man, I’m just so sick of you guys loitering about town all day. When will you ever see that the future is NOW! You screw up now, and you’ll be screw-ups forever.
SC: Dan, I get it, okay? Stop lecturing. Get a life, man.
Dan: I’m not dead. I do have a life.
SC: Whatever, man. Hey, we’re out of fags. I’ll head out and grab some. You guys want anything?
Dan: Get me a couple o’ bars of candy, bro. This stuff makes me really hungry.
Joe: Dude, you’re stoned again?? [To SC] Hey, hold up. I’ll come with you.
SC: Alright.
Joe and SC make for the door. Joe slams the door behind them.
SC: What the hell did you do that for?
Joe: Remember what we were like back then? We had everything going for us; we had everything figured out. Look at us now.
SC: And what’s wrong with us now? This shit is all part of putting on years, man.
Joe: C’mon, you don’t believe that, do you?
SC: Give it a rest, Joe. There are a lot of other things I’ve got to worry about. Besides, Mike keeps us sane. He’s like this buoy, you know, that warns us when we’re too close to burning out.
Joe: Hey, look at that guy. He looks familiar.
SC: You’re right! I can’t place him, though.
Joe: Oh, dude. He went to the same school as us! He was our senior!! I just can’t seem to recall his name, man. Let’s go talk to him.
SC: Yeah, why don’t you go on ahead? [Mimicking Dan] I’ve got better things to do.
Joe: Yeah, right.
Joe disappears amidst a flurry of people.
SC: [Singing] I can’t do this all on my own… No, I know… I’m no superman… yeah… I’m no superman…
Half an hour later, SC returns home to his bedroom, which, to his bewilderment, is empty.
SC: Fuck!
He picks up the piece of paper that Dan had been scrawling on.
SC: [Thinking aloud] He did it, the old fool!
The neutral expression on SC’s face slowly turns into something queer. In a sudden, jerky motion, he turns around to find Dan, Joe, and Mike,
standing across the room staring at him.
Dan: No, you did it, SC.
A breeze wafts through the window. Dan, Joe, and Mike fade, as if they were smoke dispersed by the listless wind.
Dusk fades across the horizon throwing a veil of darkness over the world, a shroud for the living dead. Everything seems to meld into this huge black canvas, interminable, looming large in every direction I turn. The sheer quiet it brings with it fills my ears. It’s too loud. I can’t bear it anymore.
Every night as I climb into bed, dreary from the day behind me, it happens. It’s this feeling that I can’t shake off; it’s ineffable. It overtakes me and drowns me in a sea of foreboding.
It’s as if I’ve been pushed into a well. The walls shoot up all around me, and the tiny speck of light at the far end grows ever fainter until it finally melts into nullity. The darkness pierces into my skin, and in slow deliberate progression, engulfs me completely.
I am overwhelmed with a sense of dread – the fear of the unknown. (I’d have still reeked of fear even if I had known.)
But I feel strangely at ease here after enough time. The fear grows into nihilistic delusions – everything ceases to exist, physically; everything is so unreal. Like the voice in my head talking to me in hushed tones, nettling me with it’s singing now.
“Fifteen men in a dead man’s chest,
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.
Drink and the devil is done with the rest,
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum…”
(And the repertoire continues several times a minute.)
“Can you hear me?”
“Wrong question.”
“Did the job anyway! Can you like get out of my head now? I’d like some quiet, please.”
“Can you get out of your birthday-suit if you chose to?”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense… only if you choose to see it.”
“Who are you?”
“I would’ve asked you the same thing, but I already know who you are.”
“Alright, who am I?”
“That is the right question!”
(Several minutes have gone by now, and the voice no longer spoke.)
I know who I am. Stupid voice… I don’t need you to tell me anything. I just don’t like being in this impalpable state of darkness.
“You chose the dark, my friend. And yes, I can hear your thoughts.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you that.” I was. He knows it. He knows me.
“Yes, I do.”
“Why would I choose the dark? It’s so…”
“…lonely?”
Lonely. The word stuck, in big golden lettering on stone, strung on thin strands of invisible black thread and suspended from somewhere above. A sudden gush of wind seems to holler “lonely” at me.
“Yes, it is lonely. And I don’t like it.”
“And it’s leaving you nowhere to run to.”
“I’m not trying to run away.”
“Think about it.”
“Oh, come now. Life’s been good to me. I’ve had my fair share of everything that I’ve wanted.”
“And yet you lack that meaning in your relationships that you’ve always desired.”
“What meaning? I desire no such meaning that I don’t already have.”
“Ask yourself that if you will.”
Meaning… meaning… I don’t get it. I have everything that I’ve ever wanted from my relationships.
“Do you, now? You see, if you did have what you say you have, you’d probably have never heard my annoying persistence at trying to grab your attention.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Because you choose not to!”
God! Why do I feel like I’m walking in circles here? I am not getting anywhere… where am I supposed to be going anyway?
“God (laughs). Now there’s a belief system I’ve never prescribed to.”
I can’t take this anymore. I have to snap out of this. Wake up, goddamn!
I wake up with a start, beads of sweat rolling down my temples. The night outside is cold and lifeless, frozen as if it was a picture. I pull out a cigarette from the carton on my nightstand and, with fagged steps, walk toward the flickering screen at the far end of the room. I sit and peer into the screen. An incomplete game of solitaire stares back at me.
“It’s been over a century now since the time the construction of this house was begun. There were so many people who lived here, many of them died here…. The walls of this house have seen so many things, and recorded them in a form you and I may never know. But record them, it has. And in some strange and inexplicable moments does this house convey fragments of the past to the inhabitants, in what eventually turns out to be something bizarre…
“Grandpa, there is no way you can get me to sleep with another of your ghost stories… I am not really scared of them anymore. And it’s not like you could scare anyone to sleep anyway.”
“O, okay! Just go to bed before your mom and dad are back. And, by the way, these stories are not made up, you know. Did I tell you that your great grandmother walked out of this very bedroom for an evening walk, and she never returned? They never found her again. Yet sometimes, when the moon is a sickle and the curtains billow in the cool breeze of the night, they say you can hear a soft, gentle voice, humming her favourite song.”
“Goodnight, grandpa.”
The night was cold and dark. And outside the little window, the boy could hardly see the flicker of light from a distant lamp. Electricity was a scarcity in these areas – there had been no electricity in the grand, old house for an hour. The burning taper rose and fell in the socket. The boy’s room was engulfed in darkness, and the howling wind sent a shiver down his spine. He got up to close the window, and then jumped right back into bed. He slept, and he dreamt horrible dreams. It was only a matter of hours before the sun reached for the sky, whispering into everybody’s ears, “You can wake up now. It was only a dream.”
Sitting up on his ancient bed, the boy wondered what his dream was all about. “Was it because grandpa told me those things last night?” Whatever it was, the boy decided that he was fed up of those stupid old stories. There were no such things as ghosts anyway!
It was evening by the time he got back from the play field. He took the stairs, and as he walked in through the door of his room, he felt something crawling up his back. “Probably an insect,” he said to himself, and grabbed it. He let out a blood curdling scream when he realised that it was a large bat in his hand. He let go, lost his balance and banged into his study table. His mother came running in.
“What happened… are you alright?!”
“Nothing… nothing, mom. It was just a bat.”
“Well, you ought to be more careful. You know there are bats and owls flying all over the place at night.”
“I know I know, mom.”
His mother got busy with her work. He pulled his study table back to its original place. It was then that he noticed something strange. The walls of the house were not made of brick. They were made of something else, and had several layers of plaster over them. The table had created a small crack on the wall, revealing tiny shreds of dark blue plaster. He cleaned up and put his table in front of the crack so no one would notice it.
“So you little devil, did you have a nightmare last night,” asked his grandfather to the little boy as he walked into the dining room for tea.
“Will it pleasure you if I said I did, grandpa?”
“He, he… so you are afraid of my stories aren’t you?”
At that very moment, a brilliant idea struck the little boy. He looked at his grandfather with a solemn expression on his face and said, “Say grandpa, have you ever been to a place for the first time and felt like you’ve been there before?”
“What are you talking about my boy?”
“It’s the strangest feeling that I’ve had. It’s like I have faint recollections of seeing this house the way it was before I was born.”
“That nightmare really had you bad, didn’t it?”
“No grandpa. Tell me, weren’t the walls a dark blue before?”
“They were! My god, they were!! However did you know?”
“I told you grandpa, it’s like I’ve been here before I was born.”
“It was a long time ago… my grandfather had the walls painted dark blue. We didn’t even have cameras then: you couldn’t have seen it on a photograph.”
“Duh, if you did have cameras, they would’ve been black and white.”
“What else do you remember?”
“Uh… uh, there was pond right… right next to the gate?”
“Amazing! This is truly amazing!”
(”Phew! That was a close one!!”)
“What else? What else?!”
“Grandpa, did I mention I had faint recollections? It was more like a dream. Here comes mom now with the pancakes.”
The old man stared at the boy in bewilderment for quite some time. He concluded that he was a reincarnation of someone who had lived in this house before.
“Dad, what’s on your mind?”
“It’s the most amazing thing! Your son, here, is actually a reincarnation of someone who had lived here before.”
“What?! Are you feeling alright, dad?”
“Ask him… tell her grandson.”
The boy was in a fix. He knew it. He pulled on a confused look and said, “Uh… mom, it’s nothing… uh… I think grandpa isn’t feeling very well.”
“Oh, I am feeling fine. The boy needs help, I tell you. There is a fakir in town for a day or two. Tell him to come and see us… your little son is possessed I am afraid. He’s been saying weird things… as if he knew this place before he was born. And now he looks so confused, like he didn’t know what he was saying.”
After the much deliberation and hours of discussion, and taking into consideration that the boy kept saying his grandfather was in over his head, it was decided that the fakir be called to the house. The lady of the house was away visiting her parents the night the fakir was to show up. The old man was asleep, and the boy was at the gate patiently waiting for him. When he did show up, he politely introduced himself, and told him that his mother would be with him shortly.
“It’s my grandfather, sir. My father used to come back from work late in the evening. A few years ago his car met with an accident… and he never returned. I still remember the way he used to hum ‘Raindrops keep falling on my head’ when he walked in through that door… always a spring in his step.” A tear ran down the boy’s cheek as he continued with his story. “My grandfather always waits for him to come back… hoping that he would rise from the dead one day and come to see his father.”
Just then, the old man, awoken by the sound of voices, remembered that he was to expect the fakir. He washed up and came downstairs to find his grandson and the fakir in the sitting room.
“Ah, we’ve been expecting you. I see you’ve already met my grandson. His father should be here any moment now. We will talk then. In the meantime, let me fix you a cup of tea.”
The fakir looked at the boy. “I see what you mean little boy. Perhaps you could give me and your grandfather a moment.”
“Sure. I’ll just go to my room.”
The old man came in with a tray. “My son should be here just about now,” he said to the fakir. Just then, the back door clicked, and a man walked in humming ‘Raindrops keep falling on my head.’ He was cheerful, and his clothes were dirty from a hard day’s labour. The fakir jumped up in his place and looked at him in horror, and in a split moment he was out the front door, running like the wind.
“And what’s wrong with him, dad? He looked like he’d seen a ghost. I told you it wasn’t a good idea to call that fakir here. There’s nothing wrong with a little boy’s imagination running wild anyway, is there?”
“I believe you’re right. I did overreact a little.”
[From the movie "A Knight's Tale": William Thatcher in a letter to Jocelyn]
My dearest Jocelyn,
It is strange to think, I haven’t seen you since a month. I have seen the new moon, but not you. I have seen sunsets and sunrises, but nothing of your beautiful face. The pieces of my broken heart are so small that they can be passed through the eye of a needle. I miss you like the sun misses the flower; like the sun misses the flower in the depths of winter. Instead of beauty to direct its light to, the heart hardens like the frozen world your absence has banished me to. We next compete in the city of Paris. I’ll find it empty and in the winter if you’re not there.
Hope guides me. It is what gets me through the day and especially the night. The hope that after you’re gone from my sight it will not be the last time I look upon you.
With all the love that I possess,
I remain yours,
The knight of your heart
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| 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 |
| 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | ||
