I distinctly remember the first time I felt it. It was a dry and hot summer afternoon, and I was staring at the labyrinth of lanes in my workplace's neighborhood, standing on my office's terrace. The summer wind slapped me across my face to remind me of its presence. It was a feeling of yearning to be elsewhere. When I thought about the elsewhere, I tried to dream up a place or a precinct. I failed. It was a general and sweeping sense of hatred towards where I was. The distaste was so strong that it impaired my imaginative ability. Where to be was just an 'elsewhere' with no tag or tangent to it.
With what followed, I had learnt that imagination wasn't the only thing I lacked. I lacked expression. I think I still do. Since it was a deeply abstract thought, I inadvertently locked it away, and then life has happened since.
A lot has happened since the lockup. There has rarely been any stillness to hear the sound of Silence. I have learnt that the sound of Silence id very distinct in its absolute. And human condition hardly offers the room to gratify one's self with that sound.
To retract from my digression, today I felt the same I had felt that afternoon a few years ago. It lasted for a moment or two and left me with a deep wistfulness as it passed. Now I am feeling wistful as I write this. Soon, this wistfulness slips away.
