Memoirs of Poems: Dream skeletons

He traveled back into time by flash of poems. Nostalgia surrounded him and dry, colorless details of past were transformed into a romantic movie, running at breathtaking pace and projecting life as collage of so many beautiful dreams, even now, at a irreversible distance he has walked from them, he felt them still growing inside. He thought, as he regularly thinks about poem of poems, not just poem, 'poems are not imaginations, not any work of fiction is purely imagination. we cannot visualise anything unless we have encountered with some sort of approximation of that visualisation in out lives. it is our mind which then transcends them, remove unwanted dimensions and fools us with product called 'imagination'. ' He thought of imagining her, whom he had traced through his poems, he has marked her footsteps on every encounter he had with her shadows, he has kept some hidden spot on his now rotten soul where she scribbled her poems sometimes. Bus was travelling through southern part of city now. He loved this area. It has ecstasy of life completely filled inside, in slums surrounding skyscrapers, in sea shores lined with free flowing high ways, in delicacies presented in inviting rappers, possibilities exploding of flesh and mind, he loved it. He remembered when he first walked here, it was 9 years back, when he was just a boy, pipping into region of youth which then seemed so wonderful.
Suddenly bus entered into some region, like Harry Potter movie. He never knew city has such a part. Road was surrounded with old villas, creepers running down from balconies of those villas. Every villa is like age old myth which kept fueling dream of the city into distant minds and made them come here and live. though old these structures are, they have exuberance defying their ages. He felt poisoning by bars hold inside these villas, beauties sketched and carved inside those dungeons of passions, he was getting ultra-conscious, poems vibrating strongly near the skin, blood on the verge of exploding, memories coming out through every breath and occupying empty seats of the bus. He closed his eyes, felt a soothing breeze touching tips of his nose and ears, and open his eyes by a familiar but heard long back voice.
She has come, as if listening to urge. She never came like that before, he thought. Why now? 'I know when I need to come', she answered. His doubt melted away by her smile. He felt security surrounding him as she approached and sat beside him. Nothing changed, except few lines on her faces, which have grown matured now and are adding to her look. He puzzled though, to say or ask her anything. He just kept looking at her, sensing her existence near him, covering his orphan one, pacifying every wave of disturbance. Through glimpses of outside visible through patterns of her hair, he watched moon light touching calm sea surface, reflecting back and shining with sprinkles. Finally, he found route to speak to her and asked, 'why had you come? And, will you leave soon?'
'Life has some points when it comes and asks us to ride it. Question comes in deceiving form, it is asked so humbly that we feel it will stay humble like this forever. We have to humble with that humble moment, we have to understand that there is only infinitesimal distinctness we posses, everything else is continuous journey of impressions. We should see what choices that moment has, and then answer it, whatever our answer is. But we should not be rude with it. That moment disappears, then comes mirages of self search, vacant justifications of survivals and misery of dragged behind life, never living it. We deny destiny even when we are crushed under it, and destiny denies us of single moment of unifying with life that we see it in us, but are not able to live. '
He bewildered by what he heard, but soon he realized he deserved what he listened. 'So how do you see me now? Do you think I have nothing left and I am just getting flown by wind? Do you think all poems are just empty treasures? Is only way to happiness is to discover your madness and leave the world to run on it's own? Is there nothing one gets by watching others' lives and then channelling them into another world of stories and songs? Is it all useless whatever I lived? If it so, why not you just end it? I want one new, untouched by you, untouched by any conclusion of what it can be or should be, and then I will sketch my own. '
She put her fingers in his hairs, pulled his head into her lap and kept running her fingers on his head.
'Once I was sitting in the hospital. waiting for test reports of my father. There was one kid playing there. He was running behind balloon given to him by his mother. Suddenly he put his foot wrongly, foot twisted and he gave a very painful cry. It wasn't a very harsh twist, but that boy started crying as if he was in immense pain. His mother ran towards him, her face was red and worried. She took him in her lap, sat on the coach, removed shoes from the foot which was hurt. That boy had leg deformation. The foot got hurt because it was very weak, almost lifeless extension of ankle. It was that shoe which has supported his weakness, but with twist shoe separated from that ugly deformity and he cried. I was in tears when I saw that such innocent boy and his leg. His mother soothed him, but he refused to get down from her lap. He never really looked at anybody else, not to that balloon which he chased so vigorously few minutes back. His cries were not loud, but he kept sobbing in his mother's lap, his weak leg floating in the air, and show lying sadly on the ground.'
She made nodding sound. He felt very calm, as that child would have felt in mother's arms. He was falling like a leave, who has finished it's assigned conversion of sunlight and now ready to meet the roots. He had fallen asleep.