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richasmukherjee.com

love, laughter, pain, joy, life and its lessons, one word at a time

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noise

Static


The axis of just about everyone’s personal universe is balanced on something precarious and unpredictable.What will he think? What will she think? Will I look stupid? What will they think if I fail?

This brotherhood of apprehensions comes in a thick book full of myriad shade cards.

One more debilitating than the other, leading to paralysis.

Of intent, actions, determination and resolve.

It’s that same look you see on a child’s face, tapping his bat nervously, waiting for the ball to come in the backdrop of a sea of expectant faces.

Behind stooped shoulders and a quivering mouth, desperate to answer a lingering questioned scribbled and left unanswered on a blackboard.

In an unfinished joke that withers away on unsure lips.

On the beads of perspiration dripping down throbbing temples, which were full of a speech, now frozen, having already predicted failure and judgement.

All they really need to do is see nothing, assume nothing, hear nothing, but the sound of their own voices.

They are the masters of their destinies.

Opinions and tags are like transient ash from a withering campfire.

Long after the ash, fire and heat are gone, what will remain are the coals and pebbles of their determination.

Hush…


Honking Horns, roaring machines, angry screams and a frustrated shout.

Welcome to the city, noise is what it’s all about.

Sometimes I think, to let my own thoughts in,

I need to drown out the world and lose the crowds.

Once upon a time there lived a little girl.

Who told many tales to a murmuring brook.

The whistling wind in the willows heard her secret.

The chirping birds listened intently, but knew all too well how to keep it.

She played with her friends in the tall grass, filling the air with chortles and laughter.

The owl hooted a lullaby every night while she dreamed of a happy ever after.

The brook is parched, it’s dead and gone.

It won’t speak to her anymore, her childhood stories lie waiting and forlorn.

The wind has dissipated lost amid tall towers.

The chirping birds drowned out, they’ve lost their power.

The owl wails a melancholy song of the times that have been shown the door.

The sound of silence, the sound of happiness is no more.

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