Ruminating

I look out of the window

And see the sky, the trees, and everything that's on the other side

I keep looking, knowing little of what or why I am doing what I am doing

I hear all the talks, I hear some whispers

But none of it can I decipher.

It is like language has no meaning, that is, at least for a while.

There's someone talking to me. I know that, because I'm staring into the eyes of the one I am supposedly having a conversation with.

But little does the other one know that I can see right through them.

The view outside the window is as clear with the person standing in front of me, as it is clear without the person being there.

Quite obviously, his/her words are falling on deaf ears

Because I ain't listening. Or maybe I am, but my powers of comprehension, or the lack of thereof, render me indifferent to the string of syllables striking my eardrums. Surely can I hear. But it is as good as I cannot.

I look and stare at things without a clue, of what I look at. It's there whatever it is.

I sit where I sit, transfixed, looking at it. "It" could be a strand of hair, a pen, a piece of chalk, a pretty face, or an ugly one at that, and nothing would matter.

Maybe I am losing it, or was it that I lost it long ago, or even that I had it in the first place, I know not.

But something tells me that I am walking on thin ice.

As far and wide as I look, I see an endless ice land.

Not a sign of life.

And only white noise.

My nose picks up my favorite fragrance from time to time.

But that, I now think, is like a mirage.

My skin feels the warmth of the morning sun.

The glory of the blue sky, by and large.

Maybe I shall start to pay heed to what's being said. The conversation might just become a bit more meaningful.