Talking to myself (On grey sun and grief)

“It’s grey outside.”

“Monsoons…clouds have gathered…it will be grey.”

“No, it feels grey, it feels like sadness.”

“Remember that you like the colour, you used to wear it often?”

“Yes, but with silver bangles or earrings or rings or neck pieces.”

“Your silver lining?”

“No, the shaft of lightening.”

“So why does the grey bother you?”

“It does not. It seems like a sky full of remorse.”

“We need rains.”

“Just as we need sorrow to purge ourselves.”

“Of?”

“Our own burdens.”

“What is so heavy that you carry?”

“Unrealised dreams.”

“That must be light then, if they are not realised.”

“No, they sit inside me as though I am an incubator.”

“You are protecting them.”

“Unwittingly. Those dreams will never come true.”

"How do you know?”

“Because they were not mine to begin with…they came to me while I was asleep and stayed to watch the sun with me.”

“You said it was grey.”

“The sun is grey…”

“I think this is silly…”

“Look into it straight and watch yourself blink away the tears…now open your eyes and see it through that film of agony.”

“The sun is not grey, your way of seeing it is.”

“What about the cloud that stands just beneath it?”

“During sunshine the clouds are not grey.”

“This sun peeps in during the rains when the clouds are grey and that one cloud stops me from seeing it and makes it appear grey.”

“It is the cloud then.”

“It is also the sun.”

“Whose sun?”

“Mine.”

“Do you own it?”

“Anything one sees is ours.”

“No. You feel you belong to it or it belongs to you, but you do not own it.”

“Belonging to something makes you its owner.”

“How so?”

“If I cry over something then I own the grief.”

“Why do you cry?”

“To tell the grief I am one with it.”