Project Canvas Light

Project Canvas Light

“But they consider you cold and frantic.” Jensen spoke with a soft chuckle.
Without looking up from the book, Nash took a sighed and said,” They don’t usually walk in my shoes. Do they?
Jensen smiled to himself and walked over to the window , holding the coffee mug in his hand. The world outside the window was a different one. The 23rd story studio apartment was a far more divergent place. the cloud cover over the Manhattan sky and the emerging sun had a bleak sort of effect. But then there was a crowd busy in their lives. The crystal clear Hudson river was a site of isolation and furore. Jensen looked at the waves sweeping the shore and going back , rejoining the ones separated earlier. But was every wave in the same place as it was before?
There was an uproar on joining , and there was a melancholy on departing. But every time they travelled away from the shore , the returned as a different entity. Perhaps because the journey of segregation molds you downright. Into something that you never had the idea of. The world outside had something in parallel with the world enclosed within the walls, the storm of pensiveness. And the restriction also. Yeah… The waves had never left the shore , no matter how long the journey of severance was, they remained flowing within the same bounds . Perhaps in the yearn
of meeting the long-lost. And Nash? well he had also never left the apartment .Remaining tied to the shackles of fate, he never came out of the 23rd storey apartment. To stand by the shore and share the tales of agony and anguish. Perhaps both drunk on the idea of mopery feared the cascade of deceit.
A strong gust of wind pulled Jensen out of the swirling clouds of thoughts. Taking a deep sigh , he looked at the coffee. It had gone cold in wait to be drunk. Things usually go cold with time. Things? He looked at Nash who was sitting on the rocking chair reading the book. But his eyes were not moving. It was not the first time when he had lost the track of book lines and drowned in the depths of memories. Books do that to you now and then. Nash had also gone cold with time. Frigid and unresponsive
to the things he heard or came across in the routine. But for the one who knew him was well aware that despite the frost that had embraced Nash, he was delicate. Delicate enough to be shredded away by the single blow. And this luke persona was the result of those hard blows of past which drenched out his blood. And left inside a convulsing flickering soul. Jensen knew that the smirk that Nash usually gave after hearing a compliment about his paintings was not a haughty response rather it hid beneath a strong yearn to smile. To smile till his eyes were wet with tears and his jaw line ached with laughter. Jensen knew that behind the smug expressions he wore , there were moths of gaiety craving to fly like butterflies but had long-lost the ability to do so. But who knew?? Who would wish to know? Who would care to know? Shrugging his shoulders , looking towards
Nash and then towards the Manhattan life, he jerked his head. Since when he had started wishing that people were not egocentric. They had been from the start of times and they would remain the same way. But what if for once in a while they do think about others regardless of their manner of perception?? What if they walked in the shoes of others, wore their skin and lived in their souls to perceive the things differently??
wouldn’t the world be a better place to live in then?
It would be… Certainly it would be.
But who cares that on the other corner of Manhattan city , in the 23rd storey flat there lived a person who was perceived cold and frigid was in fact an exquisite and a servile soul. Jensen remembered when years before Nash out of agony spoke out his heart and said with his voice choked with lump of tears.
“If I am not intimated and ranked for the hero that struggles within me to win
the daily chaotic battles. I vow to become the grisly nightmare , the villain
whom they all cower before.”
Perhaps , the fault was in the crowd fouling the shore not in the waves that roared in the segregation.
Areesh Fatmee For Beyond Sanity Publishing
Art By Cidrah Usmani

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