Saturday, September 20, 2008

"Maybe, we are all the Prisoners of Time..."

I don't know why, but I felt a sudden rush to take out "the book" out of the drawer...

Perhaps my hands act of their own volition, but I don't know.

I read my own words, the words I wrote two years ago...how time flies...I mean, how time flashes.

I used to write an italic character, and I used to love my pen; I used to lock myself up in the words, in the thoughts, in the feelings, and I used to listen to my heart palpitating...

I used to capture the touch in my life in a simple way; I used to caress every page of my work, and smell the fragrance of the blue ink...

The cover with a four-leaf clover once brought me luck, and once let the happiness slip away from my hands.

The caring words of Mohan once intilled in me great strength, and once ebbed out of my memory without trace.

I saw the cat in the dark night, the princess with the scarlet scarf; and I saw the wilting of the Michaelmas daisy, the death of the golden turnip.

I saw the African music-player who retrieved all the love from a little girl and tramped upon her trust, and I saw a "Seraph" trying to console the excruciating pain of her, but ended up willowing in the unrequited love.

I sensed the harshness of my words, and the tender touch accompanied with them.

They sluiced down my memory two years ago, taking away with them all the joy and pain a spirit could have felt.

And they were all locked up in "the book", the book without seeing the sunshine for two years.

Now I open it again, to sense the touch, and to smell the ink~

"Maybe, we are all the Prisoners of Time.."

We stand under the gibbets of time day and night,

Waiting for the moment of execution,

While our lives are drifting away from us

In the tickling of the clock,

And,

So do our memories...