It was early evening and there was an hour left for sunset. This was one of the those times where I’d give myself in, to air and light. This was the time, I proudly called mine. There’s a belonging, a different escape in time before sunset. These Sundays were like dust of gold, powdered in the breeze, drifting with a pureness so beautiful, it felt like it fell form heaven. And now it was slowly burning me as it lay on my skin. I’ve never felt this whole.

A moment like this feels perfect and beautiful. I’m sitting by the window, and on me, falls lights and shadows of leaves. A gentle breeze by and it seems to whisper in my ear, “the world hasn’t stopped. This isn’t the time that’ll last forever… You won’t either.” wind passes by me, by my face playing with my hair which falls like a tease. ‘we do not live forever. Ofcourse we don’t. But we last as long as we’re remembered. We live as long as little fragments of us are there somewhere transcending time. I’d feel alive everytime someone says my name, and recalls a memory of me even when I’m dead. I’d feel alive when someone looks at an old photograph of mine and stains it with tears. If I’m going to have death, then I’d like to be remembered’. Memories and names haunt ghosts. That’s what the culture hasn’t told you yet.

Soaking myself in the sunlight, I close my eyes. The wind wavers and leaves dance. I can feel their shadow against my closed eyes. It’s all blood, light and dark.. I’m taken away in their symphany. These are the moments that’ll last with me, I think.