The little Birdie insisted that I hear its tales – Apparently the Mountains and the Skies are green with envy. Watching you and me meet and greet, bicker and unite, gossip and laugh. They seem to be apart, miles and miles away. On some days, when the Birdie flies over the Mountains escorted by its lovers and then up in the Skies, I hear they plead to be linked… to rekindle old love. They plead with the Birdie & Co. to draw lines by their flight, by flapping their wings, creating ripples in the air, just to join the dots between the love-sick Mountains and Skies. Just to bridge their gap and draw them closer. But the Birdie told me it just smirks at their desperation and mocks their interspace. Mountains can kiss the Skies only in romantic poems and fairytales that humans pamper themselves with, yes?
The Mountains once groaned to me, the Skies wept. They asked me how we meet so often, talk so much… How we hug and part, only to meet again and again… Is that even possible? That fortune? That proximity? The estrangement had made a cynic of the Mountains and the Skies. They now choose fear over hope, dusk over dawn, dissociation over warmth. But you and I! We are basking in hopes, dawns and warmths. But you and I! We are basking in passionate love. Is that even possible? That passion? That love?
May be on that inevitable day, when our lives tumble into that dreaded oblivion, we too will become like the Mountains and the Skies – distant, love-sick, envious. We too will drown in fears, dusks and dissociations. We too will yearn for rekindling zealous loves. Then we will look in awe at some foolish young lovers and wonder, ‘When did we turn so old?’
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