Am I raving mad?

He walks around bare chested, looking forlorn and wanton. His walk resembles a gait which seems to have faded away with time and it's strictest measures. Vehicular traffic, dusty roads, patches of carbon, normal people and such mundane-ness refuses to budge his madness.

His other brothers dot the steps by a water body. One blackens his face while the other slowly paces up and down while constantly looking down at the scathing sun. The burning floor on which he moves his feet absorb the blistering beating of life gone by. Their respites are these lonely, brooding trysts with a darkness that beseeches them even though the sun is screaming at their despair.

They walk their own sorcery, their vowels and consonants bring to them a magnesium-bright flare of memory. They stagger through these pages along a crack of a moon and a forgotten sun. There is a creature living in their souls wolfing down in the flames until it is also singed! 

That old lady

An old lady with diamonds in her ears looked forlorn and lost. The sparkle of her diamonds did not reflect the sparkle in her eyes, all they showed was despondency. Until she stepped inside the music library.

“I want to walk through life instead of drag through it”, these words of Alanis Morissette drippled in the background. It was a music store that was replete with sounds from various generations.

She muttered to herself another set of lines, And of course it’s not just life and death that are both miscible and immiscible. The same is true for everything: where does the bee start and the wind end? Where does the tree start and the boring beetle end. 

The music keeper couldn’t smile and recommended her to put that single earpiece that rested on her slender shoulder and weighed over 10 pounds (to her it felt like placing a boombox on her shoulder). Her visage grew softer and gentler. The despair which had contracted it was followed by a strange smile full of ineffable sweetness and tenderness. Fresh enthusiasm wafted through the store as the music described her spiritual satori, ‘to move freely you must be deeply rooted like a dancer that enthralls everyone including herself with those movements.’

She walked out of the music library singing loudly Patti Page’s words, “Your voice dries up if you don’t use it.”

Travel, accept certain inalienable truths

Respect your elders, don't expect anyone else to support you

Maybe you have a trust fund, maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse

But you'll never know when either one will run out

Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're forty

It will look eighty-five

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it

Advice is a form of nostalgia, dispensing it is a way of

Wishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off

Painting over the ugly parts and recycling for more than it's worth

But trust me on the sunscreen

Baz Luhrmann (Everybody’s free to wear sunscreen)

                    

The Raven's flight

One could watch the waves tumble in and tumble out. These waves have no mind, no human mind. However, a human mind receives composure from the churning of the sea. Not aware that the brain is as always frothing within itself a form of bigotry. The nature of a human mind is entirely based on, very simply, 'convenience, suitability and an inherent need for self-preservation.'
Some of those meaningful conversations one may have with is oneself. There could be an imminent danger of being clouded, yet there is a silver lining in knowing that the sun will shine.


A surge of those high tides lashing at the sky; a human mind thinks, "the sea is in a burning rage, the sky is placid". Truth is they are neither. They are as they are. In their movements lie no secrets. 
Mulling over these, the raven takes a flight of life to another existential plane, where there is not a single being from the human community. Gliding over the mountains, covering the immeasurable horizon, floating on the surface of it's summer. It hits a cold cloud like a man's hand at the end of a life. It flies towards the darkness of what is next, towards the dampness of the loss of summer. 
It loves Winter the most of all, between Summer and Winter, everything is water. There is a realm in which there are no names of the dead, or saints or history of any kind. The raven lands there and closes it's eyes.

Peas in a pod

There are psychos in a ward
like the peas in a pod
the ward is a reward
like an award
a ward says,"why are we here"
in this ward lives our demons
like the sharks in the sea
we are as lonely as can be
there is a sea with creatures
not the same as those miniatures
"why are we here"
because we are a part of the unknown
In that we live
knowing the unknown
breathing the air
that we breathe
eating like the piranhas
still living 
in a way that beseeches the breathing

With these incongruent words, the psychos continued their stint in the wards!

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...