Street lamp speaks…

Its late…dont really know what time is it though…I can only see through his eyes…
but his eyelids,droopy,moist around the edges,his thoughts and consiousness hurling
themselves again and over at the bay,trying real hard to cross the threshold, making desperate attempts to escape from his brain.

I am still trying,trying to keep it all bright,trying to sustain a semblance of normality
and routine to his ordeal.Not that he isnt.

He is trying harder than I am,isnt he?

He is awake.

He is tierd,muddled up,slightly tormented,caught up in that wierd state of consiousness which
is like a warped future paradox.

I can see it.

He is caught up at the crossroads of alternative futures,pardon my chutzpah,but I am guessing
he is juggling with those thoughts of his past too,not to mention his present which exasperates
him,troubles him,gives him hope,snatches it back ,pushes him down,pulls him back,mocks him,exalts him,in short,as those junkies say,messes with him real bad.

But look at him,his visage seems innocent and pristine,like a cherubic.
No one can say that he is troubled in the least,no one can figure out
the extent of his fatigue,nor can one point out that his thoughts are going out of his control.

No one,but I.

I know what is going on in his head,his heart and soul,all of which seem to operate at the same
level.His rationality,his thought process,his knowledge,they all seem to be indistinguishable from
his senses of anger,dissatisfaction and hope.

They are not senses, you say?

Not any more,not for him,in that center where he is situated,with his eyes closed,
his emotions are his senses,as if his past,present and future all are like a tableau,one in which
each part of his life is felt and heard ,not with the senses of touch and hearing, but with these
emotions,these potent indexes crosslinked to everything in his life.

Those euphoric moments of success,those despairing moments of defeat,those funny,ringing moments
which were suddenly replaced with wails and tears,he feels them all,he is doused with memories and dreams.
Oh,I was telling you I know what is he thinking.

It may sound counterfactual,though I was not surprised,not a bit,after all, who knows him better than I do.

He is thinking of that podium,a podium specially crafted for him,all by himself,brick by brick,step by step.
Its a wierd looking podium though,nowhere like the one in olympics,with steps for three.

His podium has place just for one.

Just one.

And it is high,a height than you can possibly never describe or measure but you are aware of it like your breath.

It is playing,that symphony of his,only for him,he is the conductor, and he,the subject
of the concert,with each note specially written for him,composed by him,celebrating him,celebrated by him.

With each crescendo and diminuendo celebrating his highs and lows,he stands admist all and yet all alone.

He stands on the podium,prespiring like a long distance runner who has just crossed that mark, he has crossed a state where people around him are not a part of his consiousness anymore,those cheers,applauds no more reaching him,just a din,a hum telling him what he always knew.

Night is over,as the sun is climbing on over the horizon,casting away all doubts and uncertainties.
He stands,shakes himself as if trying to come out of entrancement of night,ready to face the world,once again.

But he will be back,I know,with more certainity than he does.
And I,the old street lamp will be shining again when he is back,tonight,tommoworow and days after
till he gets it,till he reaches there.

No, I am not worried what would happen after he moves away from my light or should I say,my shadow.
For his nights will still be tough,challenges and terrains rough,but his halo,his halo would be enough
to dispell the darkness.

He will be this human torch,not burnt but enlightened,and that torch will never ever wax or wane,for it
would be propelled by his light,his thought,his voice which would echo…

“I am”….