4 year long Imaginary conversation

Good conquered evil that we celebrate today. So we're told to remember. Remember to begin this new year, not just with lights around but within.

But sometimes there is good and nothing else. Does nothingness become evil?
Does it matter to know?

When the Good just stood by patiently. When they wrapped brambles around themselves and left petals for your feet. When they blew the cold winds that break homes away. When they stood by a man stabbed and dying, despite being a stranger.

It matters to know. For them to know.

There's us, we of the Nothingness. We're insignificant, our actions of no importance. Sometimes we too become a bit of You. But mostly, we're not the Evil that resides far yonder, but the nothingness in between that makes our existence pointless. For atleast Evil stands beside you and startles us with a reminder of who You are.

For atleast Evil challenges You.

But sometimes Nothing also can contrast with You. Because those of us who lie in what Does Not Exist are only too painfully aware of what Does when we see You.

You. The Good.

An Early Winter

You would know.

The softness of the snow as it plops on the ground withsuch gentleness.
Stretch out your arm and it tingles on your palm. Before it disappears like soap bubbles.

Do you smile?

And yet snow too turns ice.

All there is, is a chill. A chill. Suddenly.

Because the Snow Queen had sent her messengers knocking at your door. Do you hear it?

It hits you as you look around for the softness that seemed to be.

For the cottony stark white that would innocently cushion you as you lay in it. Sink onto itself and let your body mark it. Let your limbs press it against itself. So when you get up abruptly and leave it too lies in wait. Let's your body's imprints lie on itself.

And maybe if you'd stopped, turned around, you'd have seen the purity you'd vandalized.

But you forget that it lies. Outside.

Your mistress they say!

You were to be bethrothed. In the cologne that still clings to where you lay, in the carelessly strewn hair gel, aftershave lotion on the marble counter, lie these signs of wedded bliss.

Till the bliss hissed into the air and stung you like a sharp fanged cobra.

Maybe a mistress was just who she'd been

So snow fell upon snow. And snow fell upon ice.

Ice that you stamped out of your shoes and discarded in the shoes you left strewn around carelessly in the blue collar of the house.

So the snow upon snow, the ice took your leave.

It now trickles, empties out of your sight. You don't even of the rivulets that pack their bags in quiet dignity and leave.

She shuts the backdoor softly quietly.
She walks down the sidewalk without a noise.
She doesn't awaken you in the morning.

She leaves your coffee brewing in a cold heated home.

It sleeps by your side at night.

Lets you straighten your back and your muscles untense.

It lets the fight leave you. Then awakens before dawn, puts on a snow white coat and tiptoes out.

it walks down the sidewalk. And your house is in perfect order. Till you find a note scrawled in black cursive ink.

Winter had come to an end. But now all that remains is a sudden chill in the air.

It walks down the sidewalk. As it leaves you.

She leaves you without a word.

And a sudden chill snakes into where the snow melted from.

Winter had ended.

But you'd been left with a cold shoulder.

A picturebook

Waterdrops oval elongated.

Pure, musical.

Vibrating, resonating around us.

Sit by my side right here.
Soak in your feet.
At the edge where I sit.
Where my naked feet gently ripple the calm river.

It's a story book illustration isn't it?
What story would you like to be today?

Take this easel.
Paint me relief.
Charcoal me in.
Use your fingertips.
Smooth the lines.
But you say you can't draw.

It's a storybook illustration.
Let me show.

The sun in the mirror.
A careless pile of hay.
A red barn door.

Breeze whistling through.
Grass swaying to the whistle. Holding hands.
Leaves gently bowing.
Where we sit.

It's a perfect illustration isn't it?
I know what story I want to be.

So here.
Take this paper.
Write me a poem.
Let your assurance be the metric.
Let my silence be your rhyme.
Dedicate it to Future.

It's a a perfect storybook illustration today.
We're in it.