It was a regular office day. Her cubicle looked exactly like it did on every working hours. Her laptop flashed the code section she was struggling with. Her thick 5 subject notebook had scribbles of a randomly jotted poem and some thought-out algorithms. The blinds allowed just enough light to signal the approach of rains. The first few days in the new office location had come with its perks and pests. With the conclusion of initial conundrum of who sits where beside whom; the place had finally found some peace which she was still looking for.
That seemingly resting peace around had come with a chilling tranquility that made her change her place; both where she worked and where she lived. Creativity breeds on chaos and for her a certain piece of poetry was still taking shape. Like her emotions it was running high and low, looking for meaning through specks of uncertainties. She had every possible word of counsel she could give another; never one for her own madness. Perhaps the poem would answer her when she would find an end for it; or so she thought.
She was her own hero.
Chaos lingers a little longer when good things are to follow. In the past month of chaos, her eyes had spotted some dandelions hidden in certain green corners of the usual dusty road. Her hands had picked them and she had breathed wishes through their dying bodies. Wishes that would perhaps take a lot of time to come back to their birthplace. Wishes that were silently made on reading someone’s mind. Wishes that built the cornerstone on a tombstone that read “The creative adult is the child who survived.”
There is always a place where chaos sublimes to serenity. Sometimes you find it in a balcony looking at wet verdure or in a book that has stringed the words that your heart couldn’t put together and sometimes in a friend who knows the very fabric of your nature. A warm conversation that afternoon with that particular friend stirred a moment of miracle. Emotions brewed, ego played its part and then he wrote this – “The creative adult is the child who survived.”
On that regular office day, in her cubicle amidst her code section, the 5 subject notebook and worked out algorithm; the jotted poem was complete. The blinds were parted to reveal the colors that light bequeathed on them.
Her inner conundrum suddenly made sense. She knew where she had find those words before; who housed them and why they make were making her feel that special way. She remembered the dusty road. She remembered the green corners. She remembered her wishes and in that moment a stray dandelions rested on her palm, out of nowhere; in that closed office room. It made her heart heavy with its negligible mass.
The dandelion waited to be wished away and left without one. The silence between them had spoken a heartbeat.
She knows now where the loyalties of her heart truly lie.
Originally posted on Blogger on Oct 28, 2015