Silence

A man in his early seventies, lived aloof, was lost in his darkness. He would hold himself responsible for all the acts he had committed as a father, as a husband, his failings and his thoughts consumed his urge to remain optimistic. The power of thoughts, the sharpness of the created-evil, the stinging bites of what he construed as a failure, worthless, meaningless ended up in an end.

It is never easy to understand what goes on in a mind, as a bystander, one can never know. What goes in one's head only that person is aware of it. The truth that one lives within is known to that person only. The exterior may belie the pain, the humiliation, the sufferings, the travails and the joys. However, the pain within is a pain that intensifies if not checked in time. Nobody can be held responsible, one is responsible for one's own state of being.

Life branches out before us like any tree. From the tip of every twig, every branch, a wonderful now beckons and smiles. The branches wither, the tips of the leaves blacken. Bathing in the light of the moon, it is a face in it's own right. The moon is the mother to that tree, making it believe in tenderness, bending on it with it's mild eyes. The clouds flower, with a mystic blue. The moon sees everything and sees nothing. She is bald and wild. And the message is: blackness and silence.


Awaken from the sorrow, let the heart hear the tone of joy, from every depth of good and ill, the mystery binds me still.

Drizzles and drops!

The sea was being serenaded by those tiny droplets falling from the incandescent sky. In that sight, two fisherfolks were grappling with their nets. Their nets were entangled and free at the same time. Fish in the water were playing a game with the nets. In that sojourn of a play, the fish smiled at the naive' antics of those threads that made the net strong and vulnerable.  
The efforts were daunting, the efforts were continued and the play resumed with an indefatigable spirit.
Slow drops mixing with the huge waves steered their conviction, helping them in their lonely endeavors. 

Will it be netted?
Will they be set free?
Will the fisherfolks get by?

The ache of the characters felt an ache, experienced a joy, a truth: intense and depthless.

The designs or memories!

Each moment has the potential to either fade away into an unfathomable oblivion or turn into a lingering memory.

In the sub-conscience, pieces of time, events and people conjoin and form a pattern. These patterns play repeatedly and lend itself to a design. This design that is etched in the sub-conscience is not so difficult to shake if it is repulsive. Yet it may play out viciously, as the unpleasant design is steeped in a power that seems un-erasable for a brief while. Now if the design is  acutely strong in a superlative wondrous way then it is inescapable. Designs become memories or fade aways.

Stories, patterns, designs and shapes are all part of the same Design in a way only the Design maker understands...