“Raindrops down my window pane.
Teardrops in my eyes.
Memories come creeping like shadows.
Thoughts of love and lies people have told me.” Roger Whitaker.
I remember a time when my classmates and I were walking away from school, hustling and jostling one another, as school boys, usually do. Of course, I was not taking part in their playfulness. Suddenly, one of them halted in the middle of his tracks.
“Stop! Stop! Stop! “he shouted. ” Everybody listen to me.”
As my classmates gathered around him, I stood a little distance away from them, waiting for him to finish up and start walking again.
“Have you noticed that we have been walking and talking loudly for more than half an hour,” he said. “But he has not said a single word during this time.”
He pointed towards me.
I was not trying to be God then or ever later.
Doesn’t everybody say silence is the language of Gods and I had not spoken a word? No, I wasn’t keeping quiet to become God then or even later. I was just being myself.
Now I feel like a disillusioned fool.