The Leaves at my Table

There are leaves in front of me. Quite a pile of it. And they are growing in number.

Seeing these leaves fade in colour I shudder at the thought of parting with it someday. Probably I will throw them out of my window one day. Is that fate not similar to mine? The prospect of being thrown out when everything seems to have settled down. Many sunsets, many sunsets. Ah! the analogy of sunsets. The analogy of death. The analogy of decay. Or the truth of it all?

The flower seemed to have gone a little dry. A little weak. I guess it is the sun. The merciless heat will spare none. Neither the beauty nor the beast. The other day the flower looked so good. Those eyes. I tremble at the thought of so much beauty.

And I am still collecting leaves. I am not clear as to why I do it. Perhaps it gives me a reason to cling on to something. Perhaps it reduces the pain. Perhaps it reminds me of something. Marquez talks about the “perverse clarity of nostalgia”. But what about the ‘perverse clarity of an imagined nostalgia’. Is the degree of perverseness not far greater than the in the first case? You feel nostalgic of a past which never existed. It was all a product of imagination.

And I go on collecting leaves even though I know I will throw them one day.