We live in a cosmos where so many stories happen every centimeter. Every day, all of us come across so many entities that change in us in ways that we never realize. The best ones, I feel, are the ‘ones unheard’.
Now, when I say ‘unheard’, I am referring to the ones that fall into the drums of our ears, yet never travel through our system to dissolve into our blood and make a home within us. The ones that might touch our surface but never seep in, and persist, at the most, as faded memories in our lives. The ones that collide into our path with the sole intention of being held by us, just to bounce back into their place, as we, unaware of their very existence, continue with our ways.
Psithurism: The word goes on to explain one such sound. The sly sound that the wind makes when it carries itself through the trees. The sound of the joy that the leaves make every time they meet. It promises the joy of childhood memories and the comfort that they bring along. But it has an untold itch about itself; how it never promises to assuage the untouched wounds that follow that joy! The memory of how feelings dried, over the time, to empty thoughts. The memory of the pain that’s felt, when after all this time of feeling that you know love, how, in one stash it behaves like it never knew you. The memory of the revelation that how effortlessly, things, that you never thought you could forget, dissipate with time. The memory of disbelief related to how you dusted yourself off, after every time you fell down, with your own little hands and ended up marveling at the magical wonders that those little ones created. The beauty attached to the impulsive starts of those beautiful memories, where no reasons were needed in order to get started. The realization, that by their end, all they seemed to be made up of, was reasons. The hope that your friends remember you, with what it was like, before all the reasons got in between. (and not by the end of it.)