Nostalgia

Almost every day, some small incident causes undue heartache, undue pain, as memories of a time gone by, flood through with a longing for what  can never be again . Thoughts of a family once so close, thoughts of siblings now no more, longing for a time we romanticise, a time we once took for granted.

It maybe in the whisper of the rushing wind, the brush of leaves against the window pane, It could be the song of the cuckoo calling its mate , or the sunset tinting the sky pink before fading away. It could be the simplest occurrence that could stir the soul and pull at the heartstrings . What is this emotion, that lurks not far beneath the surface , to quickly raise its head, reminding us what we once were  . 

It could be the warm Christmas lights, bringing nostalgic moments of shared laughter, the shared gifts amongst friends , it could be the fire light casting shadows of people with whom we once shared a strong bond, it could be the cold night echoing carols that we once sang with abandon, or it could be just that one lone star swaying in the wind , reminding us there is hope still. 

At the end of another year, the last day we cling on to, dancing till the wee hours of the morning, partying senselessly, as if to hold on to the remnants of the past, simply overwhelmed by the fear of letting go of the familiar, we reluctantly welcome the unfamiliar. The new day, the future of yesterday, the soon to be past of tomorrow, a new day to herald the beginning of another three sixty five days, which we  pray will  bring good fortune, and new beginnings with not too many changes . 

But Life is nothing but a wheel of fortune, sometimes up and sometimes down, the past though we always picture as perfect , was filled with its fair share of troubles. Some trapped in situations with no escape, hope the New Year will bring them release, some soaring on wings of success, hope they will never descend , and those who are in between, hope for release from their stagnant lives . 

Where do we then hide from time that stops not, but like a tide pushes us along to the very end. Inspite of digging our heels in, saying no to the passing of seasons, refusing to see the creases in our face, refusing to acknowledge the frailty of our limbs and frame, we engage in activities of the young, for fear of growing old, for the fear of being a failure . Then too late we realise, we are but like thistle in the winds of change, being tossed and swept away to the twilight of our lives.