Conversations With The Moon
Conversations With The Moon3 mins 11K 3 mins 11K
The skies were clear now, after the much awaited storm in Delhi. The storm had its own perks, destroying the last of newspapers I attached on my window because I couldn't afford to get the glass changed.
Meh, I thought, digging into the cupboard for duct tape.
Capturing my attention, there it was, an appealing orange colour. I picked up the book, realising it's been years since I had it in my hands last.
It's been here this whole time?, I thought, rewinding the memories that came with . A picture of two girls in school uniform fell out of it, and I swear I could feel my heart skip a couple of beats. Not wanting to go back into my mental state of happiness while being stuck at this place, I didn't want the grey of my current life to spoil my precious orange.
Maybe life was easier then or maybe I was tougher, I didn't care. I just wanted it all back. Forcing myself to forget about the book, I got back to fixing the newspapers with duct tape.
As the sky grew darker, I dialled my mother as an everyday activity;
"Hello Neha! How are you?"
"Amazing!" I replied.
We talked for another 5 minutes and hung up.
I was already standing in the balcony with my headphones on. Playing Bryan Adams, I hopped on the railing to sit with my legs hanging outwards.
I remembered everything, our visions, our wanting to escape together, our music, our heart to heart conversations, our 'book with the orange cover', her, my soulmate. We were one of a kind, when together. And everything felt excellent when we were with each other.
The night was alluring, moonlight flooded the sky, horizon to horizon, reaching corners with its beauty. The moon inhibits an exceptional comeliness, like no other, not only beautiful when full, but in all of its phases and fractions and ivory pieces. It is as if a collection of intoxicating stardust, roses and poems; realising why the wolves loved it so much, crying every full moon for the love they'll never get their hands on.
The sky gleamed with stars and the moon shining, as if they're speaking to me. Remembering the perfect person to share the night with, I picked up my phone to type a message;
"Let the moon talk, for it has stories and secrets to tell. Hoping you have time! "
Before I could hit 'send', I realised what I had to do. Rushing back to my cupboard, I pulled my 'orange book' and opened it to page 4. It read;
"Skipper and Kowalski's
Nobody calls me with that name except her. "Stargazing", I wrote. It somehow felt incomplete. "Stargazing: fill a truck bed full of pillows and blankets and drive to the middle of nowhere to go stargazing. #1"