Miles To Go Before I Sleep..

The Moon, the Man and the Memories

" ..I can hear the sounds of violins
Long before it begins
Make me thrill as only you know how
Sway me smooth, sway me now.."

Frank Sinatra sang into the backdrop of the night, as dark as the man's eyes, who sat there on the rooftop, gazing at the moonlight.

Mouth was still, for now he had learned to speak with his eyes. An onlooker might dismiss him as a mere silhouette in time. But is anyone ever really just that? As for him, he liked to call his silhouette an outline of his life, the one which he liked to bring out in the moonlight. And for those few moments, they both, the moon and the man, were still, as if old friends reminiscing their past, the good memories or bad ones? No one would know but them, for he had learned to speak with his eyes now.

After a few moments, the rooted figure started shuffling in its position gawkily as if searching for something. There were desperate movements, and then stillness prevaded again. The air was heavy with a mixture of childish curiosity and an adult's contemplation. The world is a rather interesting place to be when your mind adapts to think like an adult and the heart, a happy child!

The thing that was been so desperately scurried out from the depths of pocket was nothing but a new packet cigarettes. He struggled to open the packet but clumsily managed to pop out a cigarette. He had been holding onto a matchbox underneath his clammy fingers. After prying one out and lighting it, he brought it closer to the cigarette in his mouth. The borrowed the illumination of the stick revealed the subtle ghost of smile-lines on the cheeks and next to his eyes, and that of worry on the forehead.

He took a long drag. There was a moment's silence followed by the noise of him coughing. The smoke escaped from his mouth and nose in the most ungraceful of ways. For, it wasn't an addiction, never an addiction, just a silly act of rebellion! Something that he tried just this one other time, 30 years back. He had failed at it back then and he failed at it again.

The stubbed out - barely burnt cigarette did more harm than the box displayed. "Smoking Kills", "Smoking Causes Cancer" it said, "Will dug out the monsters of the past" was nowhere to be read. What does it take to bury the monsters of the past? Maybe some blood, sweat and tears, oh and a lot of year, 30 years in this case! And yet, a familiar breeze, or a sight of stubbed out cigarette, washes you over with a wave of nostalgia. And they're all there, the monsters, staring at you. You relish the moment that feels both like a second and an era, quite reluctantly, too afraid to move and too afraid to think!

The stubbed out cigarette had lit a fire of reminiscence, and the monsters were out. But how does one fight the monsters that they cherish? The monsters so tantalizing, especially one. The one that gave him sleepless nights for years, for both good reasons and bad. And the one who was going to keep him up tonight!