Through My Window Pane

I am self-incarcerated indoors as soon as the snowflakes fall, huddling on a hard wooden chair doing nothing, and nothingness is simply a void no words can fill up. 

It’s hard to decipher nothingness, even its silhouette is cluelessly untraceable, a rare possession in life. Embracing nothingness, to most of us, is as guilty as lazing away an afternoon at a cafe, a blasphemy of character.

And yet, I am indulging nothingness in entirety at this moment, sitting by the dusty window pane, literally doing nothing, unless my rumbling mind is symbolic of doing something. 

So I just sit there, staring at the dust-painted window pane, flurried snowflakes fall incessantly on a leafless tree, they fall on the blue metal roofs, and on the barren uncultivated ground. No one knows when it will cease, the icy wind lethargically fades away, but the milky sky hints at endlessness, probably.

The room starts to fill up with diners, quietness capitulates and retreats quietly, noises escalate as words pour into the stirring air, but I don’t sense companionship, loneliness stays close, as I cloak myself up with this pervasive sense of nothingness, my thought goes home thousands of miles away, I let it flow, the only thing I can do amidst nothingness.

Silvery bulb light permeates the room, burning woods crackle inside the heating stove, and a sizeable group of trekkers crowd around a long table, dinner awaits in a cheery mood. I am long done with mine, my immobility lingers on, and for the very first time in my life, I circumstantially discover the ecstasy of nothingness.

Then I glance at the window pane, it is eerily pitch black, the night has gently fallen, and as unexpected as it came, the snow finally stopped.