It was raining that night. The flesh was already soaked, almost invisible, in the notes of the drops, which left the voices only, after getting merged or lost.

Yet, the soul was not.

The corporeal presence was in the flow. And the flow was unrestrained, like a fully blossomed Monsoon night is.

It didn’t desire the surreal. Though disconnected from the flow, there was nothing like dreaming in or dreaming about.

Yet, the soul was not in harmony with this human aspect of the moment, of the night.

It was raining incessantly. The outpour was musical by the consistency followed by the drops in their eagerness to meet the final points of their journeys.

But the body could not perceive it.

And the soul didn’t show any inclination to sit with the flow to understand if there was any lyrical subjectivity.

Rather, it was looking into the space that spoke of having contained thoughtlessness.

The soul was trying to get free of the elements, perceived and unseen, unspoken and planned.

Yes, it didn’t crave for thoughtlessness but it didn’t intent to ignore it either.

The musical continuity of the outpour didn’t feel charming enough. But, it had masked the other voices and the silence could read it.

It saw a way in to see if it could understand the ‘why’ of the soul acting indifferent to the body’s presence.

And it did find the way in.

The silence was speaking now. It was trying to establish conversation with the soul.

But, then, suddenly the it stopped raining; the journeys of the dropped were hijacked midway.

©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –

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