How night grows old

Every night, I stare at the endless structures which stand in front of my eyes, blocking my vision of the horizon that lay far beyond my sight. I would have loved to stare at the wide open where there would be nothing but the endless skyline adorned with the celestial bodies, mainly stars, and its different patterns and structures which emerge by their location in the great vastness. These shapes and sizes, which defy our structured thought process and knowledge, intrigues and challenges me, makes me think to find meaning in its layout. Often these patterns goes beyond anything that we know and sometimes there are hidden codes, like a cryptic message waiting to be found. I stare, gaze and observe them till my eyes grow heavy. Often I come up with my own theories which fluctuate from cliches to absurd with occasional 'eureka' moments, when I feel like the great astronomers of yesteryear.

But all these feelings I go through only when I have the chance of starting at the wide open. Nowadays, there is hardly any skyline, all that we are left with are the innumerable, identical match boxes which sprouts from the land, which once upon a time were jungles and barren land, perhaps not even ruled by bandits. Now the sky has shrunk and I can see them only through the gaps which these match boxes leaves between them. Soon these too would be plugged and all we would be left with is boxes of different shape and size, walls after walls after walls, all arranged in pattern, like a mathematical formula,  which spring up and shape our world. Perhaps then we would stand in front of these walls and speak to them about our pains, the way we used to do it with nature in my childhood days. There won't be a river to cry with, no breeze to sooth the soul, just air-conditioners which will caress the wriggled souls of the privileged and smoke out the under-privileged. There won't be grass or shurbs or trees of any nature, all that we will have are wires, something like 'Brazil' and 'Matrix' movies which speaks of a dystopian world.

Nowadays, nights are more older. They are growing old with each passing day. I at times wonder if it is the nights or me which is growing old. Perhaps, it is better to put the blame on the night, it is more convenient. As night grows old, I find codes and meanings in everything, the air we breath, the darkness that envelops us, the neon lights that keeps the streets illuminated, the moonshine and the stars which cast its shadow on the earth at night and every other things which is still unfathomable for me. Every time, I look closely at one of these things, something new is born inside me, but I am not good enough to hold on to it, to treasure it, because they die within sometime or change direction, almost at a sputnik speed. I plead, I beg and sometimes bribe myself to remember the 'new borns' but my struggle continues. Each moment a thousand things are created and destroyed. I try to control them, force them to obey my rules and commands but they are epitome of freedoms, because they don't hold captive to my tactics. 

So every night, they leave me in tears, tears which washes away the guilt of not being good enough, the guilt of incompetence. Perhaps that why I am able to get over these wasted feelings and once again look at the structured blocks which stand like soldiers in the night. I call these walls and structures as soldiers, because they protect the hidden secrets of mankind, they protect the thousands of complex layers which we have made our skins, layer which have become important to keep us safe from the brutal world outside, to save us from the eyes of the beholders. I look at these match boxes and follow the clues which are left behind by the remnants of moments that passes by. Sometimes these clues, led to another clue and then another and a new story emerge, a new born once again, while sometimes, the clues are washed away by the a flickering of my focus. 

Sometimes I get tired of watching these blocks, I move away from them and lie down on my back at my terrace and gaze at the wide open into the great void and often than not it is a joy ride into the vacuum which have grown inside me over the years. The more I gaze, the more deeper I travel, the more deeper I travel, the more close to the lost spaces I come as the night keeps growing old around my existence.