Wishing for Sunlight: Through a Lens Clearly

The sky is a quilt of grey. Not a flat grey, devoid of interest. It is a pensive mixture of dark and light grey and white. Streaks of black too: it rained last night. Is that ominous? The trees are about to lose their leaves in readiness of winter. Already the sidewalks are covered with a blanket of color. Fall still lingers on the branches in reluctatnt departure. From where I sit, inside my rented Chevy Cobalt, I can see yellow, green, orange and red. The leaden light of this cloudy morning doesn’t do justice to the view.

I wish there was sunlight.

I wish I had a camera now. Capture some of the still beautiful vista. Make memories. Instead, I try and do the next best thing. Train a metaphysical lens inwards. Into my mind. Try and capture the vista within. The trepidation, the uncertainty, the clouds. I wish I could see joy. Rapture. I don’t. Not yet. Yet, how I long to see it! I will, perhaps, someday.

Will you let me?

Meanwhile, I sit here in my rented Cobalt, in a little side street on the grounds of Penn State, with a swirling wind raining the clinging remnants of fall from the branches onto my windshield. And I make memories.

I wish there was sunlight.

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[Image ©opyright Niladri Roy.]