Days

The mornings could be the same, a hectic rush to finish toilet, get dressed, and start for the work place; however, as the day progresses other events will take place, altering the nature of the day, making it whole or incomplete. The days have characters, faces as it were, physical as well as psychical. They have moods, tempers and temperaments.

The day’s are like people, sharing their emotional life, behaving like individuals and dying like mortals. Yet, there is something grand in the demise of a day; even the most flimsy of them dies gracefully, leaving us with a sense of longing, or a vague sense of apprehension. Perhaps they remind us of our own mortality, our own insufficiency, our own utter isolation from everyone and everything else.

The days have life; they are often vibrant and colorful, dull and morose. The day’s take on the hues of the seasons, immersing in them, acting them out. They are idiosyncratic, every day different from others, distinct.

In summer, the day absorbs the energy of the sun, illuminating and intensifying feelings, and defining events vividly as clear cut frames of reference. Summer days have a life of their own that is intense, defiant and brazen. Even in the tropics where the heat carves out its own separate domain, ruling like a fearsome despot, with red eyes and glistening saber, the day performs the miracle of life, infusing enthusiasm even in invalids.

Every day is magical in the sense it ushers in new hopes, desires and new aspirations. Even those on the way out falters for a moment, fearing of having made the wrong decision. They may have lost all hope, but every new day ignites some hidden fire in them, reviving them as it were.

- felt like writing a poem, but not being blessed by the goddess of muse in that sense, I have to make do with the above.