Three & eight begins

Neither sad nor frustrated, trying to find peace with who I am. Working through the details, well paced and correct. No cursing , no calling of names, a little turned on and quite turned off. Not a bad start I say.

On the turning away

A chance meeting by the river

one last ghost so hard to tide over

a lifetime of believing, hearts are seen in the eyes

how wasted our beliefs are sometimes

far off oblivions of blazing sun,

eyes on fire and heart unstrung

in the maze of life,

so aged and beaten,

I wonder, often I ponder

that long lost youth & strange times

when dreams were seen with open eyes

distant silhouettes of castaway hearts

falling wayside on these mean streets of life

hopes and worldly wisdom always collide

i wonder why's, but never if's

Across forever in search of peace

these bridges I burn across the great divides

roads winding and long ahead

a contented soul in search of my gods

Strangers in town

Chapter 1

Sitting by my window on a rather cold but strangely sunny morning, while the cup of tea, which I had placed on the morning newspaper, was quickly beginning to lose its steam, my mind was somewhere really far away, contemplating my options for the day. The prospects I was faced with would make any person crawl back into bed and wish it was still the middle of the night.

The constancy of this Sunday morning ritual, for the past many months now, was beginning to worry me. Was I really losing interest in my own company?  how could that be- it was my only strength, my highest virtue. This ability of mine, to never feel lonely, to always love to do things in my own company.

This stark reality of boredom was like the proverbial last straw that could break my camel's back. I needed a raison d'etre, a certain something I could hold on to, to float on the sea of life.

A passing car on the road beneath my window broke the reverie of these thoughts and I found myself saddled with a cold cup of tea. I pressed the power button of the phone, it again asked me to type a pin and I again made a mental note to change the settings on the damn thing. There was no message of interest, apart from a few tired forwards and a few really unnecessary emails. It was increasingly threatening to become a big sulk of a day. I made an instantaneous decision to get out, throwing a jacket on my shoulders, I briskly walked out the door and turned the key twice, lest this momentary sense of purpose turned turtle too soon. 

Jumping stairs two at a time, I was out in the brisk winter morning air in no time and realized that it was colder than what the bright sun indicated from within the confines of my room. The neighbors in this rather quiet corner of the town were generally of the type who celebrate Saturday nights and miss Sunday mornings; not surprisingly the gardens and the street were pretty much deserted. I was tempted to imagine the bastards lying curled up in beds with beautiful women, but by now I knew too well the trappings of such thoughts and how needlessly they made me sulk. So to focus on healthier things,  I instead decided to break into a slow jog.

I was headed to my favorite morning place,  an old decayed bungalow situated at a bend in the road atop a small green hillock. Ever since I was a child, I used to come in here and sit in its garden on a small jutting rock; always quickly getting lost in the view of the valley and the mountains beyond. 

The open blue sky today, I knew, would let me peer deep and far into the open valley. The thought made me happy, it also meant that I would be able to reach till lunchtime in peace and the Sunday would be halfway through.

It may have been an hour since I was sitting perched upon my favorite rock, soaking the sun, smelling the myriad fresh smells that the breeze carries in the mountains and contemplating the beauty all around; or maybe it was a little longer when I heard her voice.

The quietness of the morning was so encompassing till then that the voice really surprised me, I quickly jerked around to see no one, another few seconds passed as it came again, this time much nearer. I quickly ran a hand through my hair, for no reason apart from the habit of becoming aware of my looks on hearing a woman around.

She came out from behind a few shrubs that really covered the small dirt path that winds up into the hill behind the house. A few curls of hair were falling on her a face, where they glistened along with the sweat- she must have worked it up walking; together they shone like small diamonds as the morning rays of sun danced off her skin. Agape, I watched her walk out and towards where I sat. In an awkward and almost conscious manner, I tried a smile, which was returned with a heartwarming, carefree grin. This strangely made me even more conscious of some unknown social inadequacy.

She came and sat on a rock near to mine and commented on the beauty of the view- I agreed wholeheartedly. The conversationalist in me took over and my well-worn probes around the weather, the sun, the passing winter, and the coming summer almost tumbled out one over another, almost as if afraid of even a second of silence. In less than five minutes, I was facing the abyss, the usual abyss of a blank mind, bereft of any ideas to lengthen the conversation. I searched and urged my mind to come up with something funny or intelligent or even fleetingly engaging, but as is my wont, I found myself clammed up. For a few moments I glanced desperately into the valley as if hoping it would throw me a conversation line, she too followed my gaze and we fell into silence. The calmness of the morning had suddenly disappeared for me, but she seemed to be still enjoying it. After a while, she stood up and bid goodbye with the same smile, that a few minutes back had lit up my morning, but now it seemed to take away all the sunshine with it. She quickly dropped down onto the road and disappeared beyond the bend, leaving me rooted and almost wanting to jump and run.

As I walked back slowly home, oblivious of everything around  I resolved not to follow the beaten path of reminiscing, then dreaming of what all I would have said, then pining, sulking, and then eventually forgetting. 

Convinced, as I was, that I would no longer do all the things that had led me into middle age, without ever really experiencing love. I had resolved to find her again.

Chapter 2

A week had passed, amidst the morning to evening dredge and within the long hours spent doing unremarkable things, I had been secretly waiting for the Sunday to come. Waiting to find her again, to execute the many plans I had been contemplating every day.

That Sunday, I woke up refreshed and full of spirit, jumped out of the bed, stretched and walked to the wall-size window of my room, and moved the curtains with a flourish, somewhere I was hoping for the weather to partake in my enthusiasm and depute the sun to be shining bright. The dark gloomy clouds and the strong breeze that I could see flowing through the trees in my neighbors garden below, instead seemed to signal a dissuasion. Determined to not wait another week, I went about dressing up and having a light breakfast. I spent considerable time setting my hair in a manner that would signal a casual and carefree manner, and then in a similar manner handled my clothes. After an approving glance on the outcome of my efforts, I walked out the door of my warm, small but sufficient apartment, into the biting cold of that autumn morning. 

Heading straight for our quaint first meeting place, near the rocks of the old decaying cottage, I found the surrounding a little unwelcoming, the overnight dew had left the rocks dripping wet and the wind was especially sharp atop the corner of this small hillock. I could have still braved the conditions but I was convinced that if she did turn up again, and found me sitting here, the chances of being taken as a glum moron requiring help, were too high and not worth the risk. So instead I decided to take the trail behind the cottage and head into the hills.

A couple of hours passed, even in the oppressing cold wind, I had broken into a sweat, I stopped at a sharply jutting out ridge, probably the best vantage point to view my still sleepy little town. I had a few memories of having trekked up here many years ago, with a few friends from school. I realized, with a tinge of remorse, how in the moribund life that I had been living all these years, I had never again found the motivation to walk up here. The crisp morning, the slight light-headedness from the mountain air, and the many tall pine trees had taken my mind away from all the inanities I chase week on week, I felt liberated and brimming with a feel-good hope. Standing there and looking down far away into the valley that spread all around, I was tempted to promise that I would make this a weekly habit, to trek up here- but then I thought the better of it, as even in the optimism of the morning, I didn't see much point in adding another promise on to the overladen table of unmet promises I kept in a corner of my small room.

Chapter 3

Going grey

Let’s celebrate, for there is only this passing day,

The morning dew is fresh and the promise of a bright sun looms,

I feel younger every day, as the jealous sky gets old and grey,

Jaded, staling memories, sometimes flicker as if a dying ember,

Bit by bit, strain by strain, a white and then many,

In the urge for spotting epiphanies, subtle hints just pass me by;

As well laid plans, topsy-turvy, fall by the side,

Wisdom comes hardest to the wise, wonder any wiser if I am,

Just for a while, through the grey dark skies,

The horizon it shimmers, in gold thin stripes;

Another new day and a cold deep sigh, as we head to some shiny new lies.

x

Who nights

We are waking and sleeping, dreaming and despairing, all in and all without. Who are we? The endless nomadic thoughts take me from one cold endless night to another. What is this with cold nights? They keep me shivering and strangely warm within, the train it rattles the whole night through nameless towns and hills, all I can think of is some fantastical lights , sparkling drops of laughter and my glories. The orange of the sky blending into the ink blue and the grey all around, flying a thousand miles up in the air, and all I want to think of is freedom and love.  Mystical stars and me chasing their twinkles, sitting all alone and still all without and all I can think of is some conversations to shoe the night by. What is it with all that goes on within? All I am thinking of is lying flat in a mountain stream and feel the water submerge me in its coldness. What is it with streams and me? You seem to be in my every dream and yet I can't take a dip in you. Like a thirst I cannot quench any of you, my nights, my dreams, the silhouettes I can never decipher, bring me a drink, for all there is somedays, is an old cask whisky to make me slowly drift away on a boat in the sleepy sunshine of evenings, over the stream in my backyard and stare far into the sky and wonder where are the stars behind the dying rays of sun. What is this in my eye? A longing , a determination, a loneliness and also the love of all I have been given. The warmth of so many who love me, the peace of the nights and the self determined pace of life. But then there are dreams and in those dreams are sunlit streams and there is me finding myself bit by bit in my small hilltown of dreams. And there is those whistles through the trees, calling me deeper into the woods as I dither and vacillate on the edges.

Aching flights of fancy

Listen, I said to no one in particular,
I want to fly down that mountain,
Soar on the wings of my soul and call valleys below names,
Paint some orange on the white floating clouds and make them rain as I go piercing through,
Fall flat into some lake between the mountains and rise frozen phoenix from the waters,
Then sit and wonder about life, my apparent loneliness midst our togetherness,
long nights of restless dreams and fantastical beasts who fail to get me through those  long night chases,
My heartbrokenness amidst the aching love of the mountains, the darkness within amidst the white and greens all around.
Call me names if you must, but don't call me back.

I used to

Yes, I used to dream, many dreams fantastical.

I used to laugh, I used to care and I used to love.

I used to gaze at twinkles, through endless dark nights.

Now on the days when the fog lifts and the moon shines through, reminisce is all I do.

I am the left over from a banquet, stale and foresaken. 

I can't leave and I have overstayed my welcome.

I am the crooked smile in a sea of grimaces.

I am the mad man sulking in the corner, enraged but smiling.

I am the nightmare that ends a night of fitful sleep.

Hitting the keys (that's all)

Sitting by the television, seeing hours of inanity didn't quite lull me into a sleep and instead, I go for a stroll into that long walkway, past the mist that doesn't let you peer far back into it.

Could you have been the one? Was there a reason I fell for you just before the disaster was about to unfold, was the universe as always trying and I as always was not listening.

Oh its me and my purposelessness staring each other in the eye again. Midst the emptiness of a thousand miles, a hapless lost one all over again. 

Give me some light to guide me by, a little breeze to shoe my time by. Maybe a little something to hold on to, as I try to steer past these tides or maybe just loose myself in them, need either, cause I am done struggling with doldrums. 

All the love I needed to give, all the dreams I needed to fulfill, all the joy I was meant to share, its all bottled up within and it is corralling one moment and dying the other, and I quite don't know what to do with this anymore. 

My heart is also selfish, much like yours, so teach me too how to throw it all away. A hundred wile wishes and no wish fairies, I dance along with the shadows of swaying trees under the shining moon. A beat in my head and sweat on my brow, a spring in my step and a little shade of a smile on the lips. Nine to date and still the embers burn, must have been some fire.

And a pain came back, like an old time pal,
Ah the many long years, were just a little few hours separating us,
And I still was in that old mill office, and you still found me funny,
The giggle, the smile, my heart;
Oh how I wish this wasn't what it was to become,
Few starry nights of loving you, loosing myself bit by bit, darkness ripped by a bright shining dust of glitters, all just serenading dreams of drunken love.

Oh, how I wish to touch and hear you whisper again in darkened rooms.

Jewel

Hello, is all she said, a hello was all it was. But dreamers, they sometimes only need hello's, and he was a dreamer.

In the sun-drenched space between him and her, myriad rainbows formed and disappeared, all in the few moments that he peered into her eyes.

She always had her way with men, the mischief that danced through her serene and deep eyes, set prominently in that undecipherable face, made most men flounder.

He told her of how he had often hoped for another chance meeting with her, ever since the time she had caught him by surprise while sitting alone at the edge of the valley on the foot of the abandoned old cottage near Toru, the biggest hill in town.

It wasn't the best thing to say, and it was almost visibly boring for her. But he was never known to be a conversationalist.

After several minutes of such inanities, she told him her name was Jewel and he blurted 'how appropriate'. That, awkwardly enough, broke some ice and she let a small laugh through, which almost made him feel like pulling her up close.

These were early days, he knew. But also that, there would be a lifetime of these days.
Standing on that rather cold but sunny morning, in front of the small bakery that opened early to catch the morning walkers, he had no way of knowing that Jewel was about to change him in ways he could not imagine then,  he and Jewel were headed for adventures.

Dark evening kites

Dark evening sky lit up with red kites,

Flickering in the wind, shaken and unsure,

Eyes on the sky, I stumble past your door,

And walk right into, you and I.

These long past years, as if, just a short few hours,
And  we were back in that old mill place, the conversation, your eyes, our smile, my heart;

Stars far, you close by and the smells of love,
Fleeting touches and whispers of the passing night,

How would one not see love as a lie,

When all that's left in its wake are slow dying embers of stale memories,
Awake through these long nights, how long will I keep stumbling past your door.

Hills and a heart

It wasn't a dark night, it was in fact a rather bright night of lights.

As I contemplated the many faces shimmering back from the water flowing past the bridge, I felt quite oblivious to all presence around. Standing there I could no longer recall any purpose in my life. It was a strangely liberating feeling. I have had enough with goals and pursuits, tired and bored, this purposelessness is in a way besotted.

Being a dreamer always came naturally to me, like the myriad dolphins I could see looping majestically from the water below, their eyes twinkling like tiny faraway stars, my mesmerizing dreams too had always kept coming. No longer.

Thus, bereft of purpose and dreams, I sought solitude on this crowded bridge, over the lonely stream that cuts right through my little hill town. If you want to be alone, go to the most crowded corner of town, my father had told me, what now seems like a lifetime ago. So I had headed here this evening. After pretending to be unaffected all through the day, I could no longer convince myself that the gnawing restlessness I had been feeling all day, was just a passing coincidence and had nothing to do with the strange and chance meeting of yesterday.

9A past midnight

I have been waiting for a girl like you, played softly in the background as I went about looking for my seat in the last flight out of Bangalore, in a rather sweltering April late night. She sat ahead of me, her perfect honey brown mop of lazily curling hair and her quick nervous jabs to keep them in place was all I could see at first. A side glance confirmed my doubts.

That momentary glance itself was enough to throw me back by a lifetime, as if I was back to the days of lying awake in her arms, in the sun drenched brown fields, past where we used to live when we knew each other. The days would turn to dusk and dusk's to night, until we were reminded that nights must part us, and with heavy steps and perhaps heavier hearts we would head back to our homes, with an unsaid promise to meet there again. The serenity of those eyes and the calmness they gave me in just a glance, the unsaid tales they told me of how I owned her heart. All came back to me, as If the intertwining twenty four years had turned to vapor and I was still the dreamer and she still my muse.

Without any hesitation, as if in a trance, I tapped her on the shoulder, and saw the annoyed surprise of her eyes melt into an unrecognizable mix of memories and perhaps anguish. It took her a few moments to realize that she was looking into familiar eyes, eyes she had often kissed and closed with feather light touch of her fingers, as we  used to lay entwined, hidden in the tall dry grasses of the yard behind the abandoned railway tracks. Maybe there was a certain dread of seeing those eyes again, but it passed away as she saw maybe the remnants of an unfinished love in my eyes.

I felt tongue-tied, she at loss of words perhaps. How do you speak to someone you knew intimately, after a lifetime of being a stranger. How do you forget love that permeated your soul and made you what you are. How do greet someone you had called so many names in those long dark nights that refused to pass. It made me stiff and rooted. I waited for that awkwardly long moment to pass, then I called her name in what seemed to me a broken croaking voice. That made her smile, a smile much like the one's that used to light up a thousand stars in my sky, every time she had laughed at my apparent nothing's until tears would well up in her eyes. In a voice pretending to sound surprised, I thought, she said hello. Though we both knew, there was no surprise, we had to meet again, else the myth of cruelty of our fate would have remained unproven.

As we sat there, pretending to ask each other all the meaningless things about how the others life had went by during this lifetime that had separated our meeting and parting, I started to realize how the passage of time, perhaps, had meant nothing deep down inside.

I wanted to ask her why she never said goodbye and never let me find her. Perhaps I was imagining, but I saw a slight tremble of a tear at the corner of those soulful eyes. And so it began, the rather unusual sequence of events, which I had no means to imagine then, would change a lot of things I thought I was and also a lot of things I thought I was going to become.

lets begin again

A new year beckons, beckons us to dream a few new dreams, build again new-hope-castles in the sand. Peer far and peer deep into the blue sky horizons and wonder afresh about the possibilities of life. A time to introspect and a time to reflect, a time to smile and a time to embrace our realities and all our fears. Let's make good beginnings, dance or smile, feast or relax, pray or plan, and commence upon some newer journeys.

Another non starter

The ends seem to always be corners,
Leading on to newer ways;
We all seem to call ourselves names,
Only to be lost in our own wile games;
We wish so many tragedies on many,
But none of the wishes ever come through;
I am caught between witches,
Asking for their pounds of flesh;
I can't decipher a road to escape
From the thousand little pathways;
I am shouting hoarse and sometimes crying loud,
Too far too long into the wall that separates me from faith.

A passing storm

Dark clouds rolling in from the east, grim warriors in their armored gear,
On the wings of furious winds, piercing like needles to my bones,
Watery eyes beholden to the sight, waiting for the lightning to strike,
Drooping trees turning green to grey as if refusing to stand in the way.

A maddening glint in my eyes, and on the lips an unrepentant smile,
Mangled but erect, on my feet still, hunched like a bull,
A dark silhouette full of rage, staring deep into the gathering storm.

Sufferance when pushed, burns the blood and drowns our soul,
And it oozes like pus out of our bloodied selves, toxicating all that passes near.

Eighteen with four to go, wonder if I can withstand these storms any more,

Teeth clenched and bracing for the impact, but will I be standing still when this one ends?

Searching for moonlight

A week had passed, amidst the morning to evening dredge and within the long hours spent doing unremarkable things, I had been secretly waiting for the Sunday to come. Waiting to find her again, to execute the many search plans I had been contemplating every day.

I woke up refreshed and full of spirit, jumped out of the bed, stretched and walked to the wall size window of my room and moved the curtains with a flourish, somewhere I was hoping for the weather to partake in my enthusiasm and depute the sun to be shining bright. The dark gloomy clouds and the strong breeze that I could see flowing through the trees in my neighbours garden below, instead seemed to signal a dissuasion. Determined to not wait another week, I went about dressing up and having a light breakfast. Spent considerable time setting my hair in a manner that would signal a casual  and carefree manner, and then in a similar manner handled my clothes. After an approving glance on the outcome of my efforts, I walked out the door of my warm, small but sufficient apartment, into the biting cold of that autumn morning. I had set out in her search.

Heading straight for our quaint first meeting place, near the rocks of the old decaying cottage, I found the surrounding a little unwelcoming, the overnight dew had left the rocks dripping wet and the wind was especially sharp atop the corner of this small hillock. I could have still braved the conditions but I was convinced that if she did turn up again, from her Sunday morning trek and found me sitting here, the chances of being taken as a glum moron requiring help were too high and not worth the risk. The lack of any basis, for my confidence in her Sunday routines did not bother me at all, though my mind did rationalize that a trekker is likely not to use the same exit every week and hence she might not come down trail behind the old cottage today. Having convinced myself to this line of thought, I immediately proceeded to the trekking trail, that led from behind the cottage and was on my way to meet her by 'chance'.

A couple of hours passed, even in the oppressing cold wind, I had broken into a sweat, I was standing atop the sharply jutting out ridge, the highest point in my little town. I had a few faint memories of having trekked up here many years ago, with a few friends from school. I realized, with a tinge of remorse, how in the moribund life that I had been living all these years, I had never again found the motivation to walk up here. The crisp morning, the slight light headedness from the mountain air and the many tall pine trees, had taken my mind away from all the inanities I chase week on week, I felt liberated and brimming with a feel good hope. Standing there and looking down far away into the valley that spread all around, I was tempted to promise that I would make this a weekly habit, to trek up here- but then I thought the better of it, as even in the optimism of the morning, I didn't see much point in adding another promise on to the overladen table of unmet promises I kept in a corner of my small room.

Beginnings

Walking back from the weary, dry and deserted hillock, I knew that for completing my unfinished story, I will have to leave. Leave the confines of self created boundaries and limitations- some real and others mostly imagined. As a stone tumbled down the path ahead of me, I could see how I too needed some tumbling, away from where I stood rooted.

Summer days are like this, they make you feel generous about your own prospects. The balmy weather, sunshine and the lightly swaying dry grass in the tropical march breeze, made me feel optimistic that winters were left behind for good. Or so I hoped.

I took many determined steps walking away, fast and quick, from the dry hillock on which I knew I had vile'd away too many years of my life. Arrogance, foolery, cowardice and lastly plain dejection, in that order, had made me sit atop the hillock, waiting for the thing to happen. It never did, and I grew older and bitter. But now was the time, the great breakaway from my prejudices and failures.

With glass eyed determination, I had set out to find my green valley and that longed for drooping tree, beneath which I would lie down to sleep each night, under the gaze of the far away shimmering stars.

I had finally set out to find love.

Unfinished

Leaning on the rails of the bridge, I could see faraway lights on the sea, probably a hundred miles away in the embracing darkness. Star like though yellow, unaware of the distant stranger contemplating them.
In the strange disquiet of that quiet evening, under the quite caress of the strengthening breeze, in the darkness of the sky and the harshness of the waves , I could neither hear the outside world nor could I hear the chatter within.
The hardening with the years and the vicissitudes of my unremarkable life, have left me cynical to the existence of epiphanies, however in that moment on that bridge, I saw a life changing one hurtling down towards me. I could have spoken aloud, for there was none to overhear, but I am not much used to verbalizing what's in my heart. So instead I write.

missing the woods for the trees

Sunray's blend with a strange brightness that makes you see the world around in a luminous yellow, as if a high wattage bulb glowing sharply in a rather small room. The objects seem to glitter and shine and reflect more than they absorb, the air is a little chilly, really an atypical late winter morning.

The stagnation of thoughts and the reduced ability of my mind to observe and assimilate seems to have increased manifold, the all permeating dullness slowly fogs my view, as if in a trance, on automatic transmission, life seems to proceed day ticking into night and then all over again.

I ask myself if this is a trend I need to intellectually interrogate and deliberate upon, the answer is usually yes. But beyond the usual yes, the single minded pursuit of this train of thoughts seems to demand more energy than I possess.

I wonder often how life slowly but surely transforms us as an individual, the singular constants such as my name and the physical body I will embody until the day I finally someday stop knowing and living in this world, notwithstanding, everything else seems to be in a perpetual churn.

Walking the streets of our past, we often realize how the world and the people in it have been changing, but very seldom does this inquisitiveness to observe and comment on change gets directed inward. How life changed me as a person internally over the years and how those changes tend to manifest themselves externally is something, quite to my surprise, I have never really postulated.

Friends, lovers, acquaintances, family all keep changing with varying degrees of abruptness and comprehensiveness, some for good, some for bad, some for neither of the two, but in my preponderance and preoccupation with their changes, I always ignore the constant churning at the epicenter of my life, me.

awakening on a sleepless night

A few years back I used to spend a lot of sleepless nights, wide awake into the crazy early morning hours,  pondering and cogitating while fidgeting all antsy and sleepless in the bed. Over time that went away and I found myself capable of salubriously dozing off at any time after ten in the night.

Then the other day, deja vu. Starting with a little fidgeting, I soon found myself afloat the ponderous river of meaningless thoughts, though empirically a major majority of these digressive expeditions have been bereft of any significant outputs, however in a digression from empirical patterns this particular digression from sleep ended bumbling and stumbling into a discovery, as I serendipitously became au courant of the fact that I am not driven by any apparent desire , small or big grandiose or plain, of late.

On the mountainous stream akin cirucitous, convoluted and undulating path that my road to self discovery has been, this sure is a new sight. No pressing desires, well this currently true fact really does border on incredulity.
For,the inventiveness of my mind, in constantly churning out new desires, material or otherwise, and my unabashed acceptance of them all, has always been a parameter on which I enscon myself on the highest level in the scales of intellectual highbrow.
Treating it as a belief, a marker, a potent indicator of my zest for life.

But here I am confronted suddenly by this vacuum left in the wake of disappeared desires. I search myself, for any post facto allergic reactions to this discovery, beyond the surprise ofcourse,  and all I encounter is an overwhelming unaffectedness. A complete lack of nervous reaction, no conveniently timed yawn to surreptiously disguise a reaction, no deep gulp for air, no twitch on the corner of a lip, not even a blink too many.

Comforting? This harmonious acceptance ? Not really sure.