The Room has been swept clean. Stripped of all pictures and memories. It lies bare, except for the glow of a flickering candle, providing the illusion of warmth. Though an illusion the candle may be, its presence remains the sole link to the past. Once, pictures had adorned these walls. Sweet smelling fragrances once lingered in the air, reminiscent of a summer afternoon. Brightly lit and warm, the room once radiated energy and the occupants never wanted to leave. But that feels like a lifetime ago...
The pale glow of the candle casts faint shadows like the works of an absent-minded painter. The air is still, save for the occasional drift of air that squeezes in from the window. The fragrances have long faded, replaced by the emptiness of frozen scents trapped in the memories of the owner. Every now and then, the wind brings in traces of laughter and faint scents of the past. Like an illusion, it only lingers for a heartbeat, slowly retreating like silent footfalls in a dream.
The poets lied to us all. Time doesn't heal all things. Though the room may be bare of pictures, the holes left by the picture hooks still remain. When darkness falls, the ghosts of the past whisper softly from the holes. Why do we fall prey to our minds? Why are we held captive by our hearts? How do you wake up from a dream when your eyes are wide open? How do you open the door to a room locked without keys? Why was the fruit forbidden?
The Stigma of the Forbidden Fruit...
No comments:
Post a Comment