About Magic and Second Chances

There’s something incredibly enchanting about a wintry midnight, when a city is drowned in slumber. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about the golden streetlamps that hover over the expressway – like tall, sun kissed trees that have weathered centuries of storms and decadence – as the world around them grows into silence. There’s something magical about the midnight rain that gently crashes on to the glass windows, leaving traces across the freezing surface – that shine by the moon’s comforting light, like the stars strewn lavishly in the sky – to be washed away by the morning sun. The neon lamp on the building, that stands guard over the night sky. And the first ray of dawn, that cracks open the menacing clouds – like a miracle that we wait for, at the end of an enduring heartbreak.

Or the warmth of your hand, that thaws an icy heart on the narrow, broken road that snakes up the lonely mountain. The uninterrupted fall in space, of the pristine rivulet into an abyss obscured by the forest. The echoes of our memories, as we kiss by the edge of the mountain – oblivious of the monotony of our lives, for once – truly awoke. The magic of a clean slate, a shot at wiping clean our lives’ mirrors with our scarred fingertips.

The greetings, the goodbyes and the wails that float from miles away, on a hushed, cold night in November – like a thousand stories crafted in their uniqueness. The laughter that echoes, when old friends meet, the twinkle in their eyes – a brilliance not dulled by time or sorrow. The smoke that twirls between our fingers and dissolves into infinity, as we sit by the crackling cinders under the silent, voiceless trees.

All of it, unnoticed in their randomness, their unassuming ordinariness. All of it, made grander as you slow down my world.


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