An Answer of No Words

April 30, 2012
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I've let my paranormal (as people call its absurdity) and just-a-bit-different (as I name its magnificence) mind to stroll out long in the balmy air, on the banks of an apprising river that seems to depend upon the 'magnificence' of others to fill itself with information, and have questioned its waters for how a pair of eyes can seem to mirror the fading time time, the time I fill my colors in and the time that still lies a skeletal in pages further.
Very right! My mind has all the time in the world, yet but it seems not to focus on how the waves swindle it.
The waters refute an answer, and my mind, as stoic it remains, treads the place, at times crumpling more the grass just stepped on and finding not a nuance, or some lucky times walking on the dried and cracked imprints of my steps of times long back to find a whole new meaning. Some quirk times, it takes a new step and makes connections to figure it all out, staying pensive on the spot while making deep attempts to hold on to its fortitude. While the mind is ready to face the answers it believes lurk around for the deserving, I seek a mute help from the world.
What help, but, can the world have to offer who knows only to define and state reasons, who appears brim with fraught, who glimpses only one side of the torrid?
As I see her, now as she is- calm and offering all love she has to offer, I know the answer- EVERYTHING.
Funny it seemed to me- the ways of her small little body as it was then, about the size of both my palms where she was curled on, as she slept oblivious of the new home she had then got. Her deep breathing told me that she knew she was safe, and the slight twitching on her forehead whimpered that she knew much more than I did that day- I had got a friend.
Almost two years it has been since, and she has sniffed her way through my heart, unknown it has turned the color of her fur by her presence. She lives with me, affection in every strand of the golden fur she wears, and love deep in her eyes.Sometimes staring into them brings my mind close to all answers it has sought all along, but then it is a forced blink of mine which refutes reading anything which is meant to be loved.
In her eyes, a dark pool amidst a bank of ambrosia dripped on mud and night encircling it all, I see a yearning. Her eyes hold a mirror to who I am now, and I can't help but wonder if it reflects to slake or snob.
Insane as it sounds to all, she can speak to me and I can reply back. Her presence means nothing to all, while all the difference to me.
So have I learned to love someone with no worldly words, and she has learned to teach someone make all attempts to understand, not read or question, but understand.





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