The stretch of time is all around me and I find myself whirl pooled by the onslaughts of the bygone ages. The day I remember in my childhood and the day dragging itself on the verge of this evening…the distance between these two has wrapped centuries with their feet and I am standing amidst this red evening addressing the silences around.
Where did the days go? Where had they come from? What does this intermediary phase imply? What is the title of the coming seasons? Are the mornings and other times as talkative as these evenings are? Why are the evenings so heavy, flooded with the soliloquies? What do they carry on their shoulders? Who are the people who will unload the burdens of evenings? With whom the evening will share its bundle of secrets? Will they understand this letter in a language having no alphabets? How many listeners did the evening have so far commencing from the first day of human existence? Every one of them would have his own words, interpretations, and connotations. But we know almost nothing about their expressions.
Everyone has his own bibliography of thoughts. Where does it go when we cease to exist? Voices are all around us. But they wear meanings only when we are alive. Why? Do the meanings correlate with life or existence? Some voices are never heard. What is their intention and purpose then? Are they ultimately doomed to be drowned into the sea of forgetfulness? When voices are not heard, who would even bother the unsaid then? Unsaid has no listener and the said keeps no meanings or at least loses its denotations. What is the destination of what is there in hearts?