There is something about clear days. The sun beats down on you, burning your back, but the wind proves to be a soothing balm. From where I stay, you can see for miles into the distance. The mountains arched like giants deep in slumber. The sky is a crystal blue, casting a mesmerizing spell, hypnotizing me. I love how the deep blue compliments with the dusty yellow of the mountains. It gives a feeling of desolation at the bottom and an empty void above.
There is something about clear days. It gives a sense of perspective, I guess. You can look far at the horizon or look closer at the window-pane separating you from the world. You can look far at the road that arches away into a sharp bend, disappearing out of sight. Or trail back, to its origin, your doorstep. The picture on the door of a snowy, far away land. Jagged mountains comprise its topography, interlaced with houses on a hilly slope. I cannot seem to recall the location. Tibet, perhaps?
There is something about clear days. The last few days of winter. The last few gusts of cold. The last leaves falling on the ground, crackling crisply under my feet. Winter is always my favorite season. I can somehow relate to the cold. The lack of warmth. The need of color in the vast stretches of brown or white. Nature is clearing its canvas that was shaded with the hue of autumn to spring up a new painting. An epilogue of winter leading to the prologue of a different summer.
There is something about clear days. The joys of enjoying a perfect sunset with an imperfect cup of tea. The calmness of the final rays of the sun. The smile on the face of someone who enjoys the moment with the same intensity as you. Her fingers crisscrossing mine like a haphazard weave. The sunlight twinkling like stars off her nail paint. The warmth of her hug and the comforting chill of her nose brushing against my neck. The landscape both insignificant and necessary at that moment. Two opposites unknowingly traveling in a circle.
There is something about clear days. Home is far away. The journey not yet begun. The longings of the soft bed and warm blanket is a fable. I often immerse myself completely in those reveries. Yet, geography cannot define a home. Abstract things like happiness from the company of your closest friends are suitable measurements. I have lost a lot of them on my way. Forsaking joy is not a hobby I relish. It is an impediment that I hope to cure. I am on my road to recovery with the stops signs only acting as milestones.
There is something about clear days.