Its funny how stories keep rolling on like a pebble rolling down a  slope. They lull at times and pick up their fervour again, re establishing their claim to a greater part of  a person’s time. They are full of different pieces of  feelings scattered randomly. And it is a failed wish that tries to hide the painful ones from us. Why do they not wither like our hearts do in front of grief? It is unfair and unjust. But these rhetorical questions have no answer to be given to. No solution to this eternal battle between yin and yang.

How about a rainy evening in a vineyard, tasting old wines and getting lost in the smells and tastes of spirits of god? Just a few friends and a rows of grape trees with some chosen bottles of wines. How about a little romance in the heart of the grapes that tumble out from the vines waiting to be plucked and treated and packed into a bottle where they mature and ripen as days go by until that very day when they are opened and the entire world seems heavenly covered in a mist of divine fragrances. How about some simple tales told in the middle of  a group of friends, tales of yesterdays and fond memories of hours long passed by. How about a few notes on a guitar, softly wafting in the breeze over glasses of juice from strawberry vines.

How softly they love the wind and rain and the robust sun, beating down and gifting them the energy to grow and lead their delicate lives. They grow in bunches, row upon row and take on colours reflected later in the wines. Gentle and tender touches exchanged between lovers beneath hanging bunches. The soil seems to radiate the vivid smells that rise from a glass so sought after. The vines stretch on forever. The wines keep ripening. With every age the wine tastes different, such as life and its stories and its ever changing nature.

Be it all imagination, yet i can smell the grapes…