Sangfroid

Autumn mornings are uncanny.

Waking up to the sun beaming in the blue skies dotted by some amorphous clouds was a certain strange experience. When the rains halted and the onset of winter began, the birds chirped more - flying out and about from tree to tree. It felt perfect. The dreamy abode of quietness had the beauty of the best, and it was perfect. Perfect enough to remind me that I am at home. I am at peace.

I always knew home isn't a place. But I discovered that it isn't a person either. Home is a feeling - one which symbolises comfort and stillness - an illusion. You don't even know if it's there. When you realise, it's too late and the feeling's gone. Then comes the longing. The wish to go back in past but only the good times.

Though unfair, the desire is valid. There are numerous times when our brain replays the happy memories created in the surroundings whenever we are in them. It is not wrong of us to dream for the good times. We do not do it on purpose anyway.

The current era of devastation, aching and gloom takes us to the platform of brighter dreams. So, what seems forced is actually unintentional and the world is to thank. The end of this unprecedented period is not even near yet but the aftermath seems to be rolling out well already. Melancholy wrapped around our hearts, we stand still mourning for the ones lost.

Barely but life goes on. Eventually, grief is overblown and sorrows are packed behind in boxes never intended to be seen again. Just the absence remains the only reminder. But then, the sun shines again. Another day commences with the sense of hope.

Until that day arrives, you'll find me sulking around the house in pure sangfroid. Pretending as if I am the sole soul to go through the things I am going through and there isn't anyone who knows better. Pretending as if the world isn't crumbling down into nothing outside my windows. Pretending as if I don't play a part in the existence of the world. Pretending that the autumn mornings are uncanny.