Hey Guys!
Don't frown upon me like that please; I know I should be working on updating Rescuing Heaven when here I am, writing a little piece. But this just couldn't stay put you know! I had to write it down.
There's nothing special about it as such, and yet the lines from a poem by Yeats caught my attention and kept churning until this was the outcome.
The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind.
That one moment when he saw her, it all surmised to a cipher. When she was all that he breathed and all that his eyes beheld; when his existence melted into nothingness to accommodate hers into his world, when all of a sudden a life before her seemed blank and the life after this moment uncertain too.
She wasn't the epitome of beauty. He would lie to himself if he would. But she was she, the woman who would mean beautiful to him. How odd the moment had been when it changed the definition of beauty to him. From the dictionary meaning of a combination of qualities, such as shape, colour, or form, that pleases the aesthetic senses, especially the sight' he defined it in a single little word. Her.
He couldn't hear her from the distance the world had conspired to put across them, and yet his ears knew the exact rhythm her voice would sing when she'd say his name. It wouldn't be honey sweet or singer-perfect; off course she would have a nice girlie voice to her. But that wouldn't deter the sound of his name off her lips.
She didn't see him; his frozen universe was not reciprocated in hers that continued to rotate with a deep set tune on its axis. But his aisle was set, straight yet spiraling towards her like a tornado to its seas, like a falling bird to its inevitable end, like that dusk falling curtains to night. She was his new horizon beyond which a life seemed waste. And waste was a life before that horizon. He was like a ship moored on that horizon, neither belonging to the lands preceding or the seas waiting beyond.
They say life is not momentary; it is a process, an ongoing flow of living. And yet he wanted life to be in this one moment, to begin and end with her existence swallowing in his. To be in that suspended vacuum which time had created for him between a waste of breath behind him and a waste of breath ahead without her.
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