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...

  

Butterfly's song

The wings of the butterfly flutter and move rapidly. She becomes a poetess at the mere sight of those beautiful flowers. The carmine red, the lilac, the shade of pink laced with a stark white. A song with a heart. A song that the leaves dance to and the cuckoo hums rhapsodies of ecstatic praise. There is no trace of melancholy only sweet consonance.

Immersed in the depthless melody, squirrel feels hoity-toity and muses that if I pass into senescence, the rivers of this garden will be in capable hands. The butterfly while casting a constative look to the squirrel, continues to sing along. The garden was clothed in sackcloth. Time stood still and in this grand hogen-mogen, everything came alive.

A presence that disturbs me with the joy,
Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime,
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of the setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And in the blue sky, and in the mind of a man
- Wordsworth

Sheath of words

Lying on a bus stop, with sparkling white hair glistening in the champagne rays of the dusk. He looked desolate and wore sadness and poignancy to cover his ragged being along with a robe of words. His orphic figure lent him a poet's disposition. Muttering away to people passing by; his words.
"Why are you looking at me, rather staring, I am not a raving mad person."
"You..you...you... look straight and wipe that smirk off your face."
"The sky is turning from a blue to a grey to a semi-black, the colours are changing. From the wardrobe of nature, Time chooses what to wear, during the day, it wears a bright shade and as the night approaches, it likes to slip into a darkness, a darkness that befits the moon."
"I may look dishevelled and dirty, my soul is not."
"Joy is the best makeup."
"I am speaking so fast because I want to see how the story turns out."
"Who wants to face a calvary before dying, you...you or you..."

Desultory he did sound, perhaps because he hears a different drummer. He maybe trying to step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.

Using words as a shield, one likes to hide behind them. The thoughts in one's head may be diabolic, however, words spinning out dresses up the devil.

Oh words, you are a release,
Oh words, you are a conundrum,
Oh words, you are a potent concoction,
Oh words, you are my ivory tower and hell....

A Sparrow's life

It is a delight to watch the sparrows chirp away their melodious selves and find joy. Their gay abandon, their bliss in who they are and the act of pure living. There is so much to learn from them. As human beings, we are confided in our melancholy and one has to imbibe and inculcate from their disposition. To be alive and to be able to change our lives is an act in self. One can only help oneself and then be in a state one wants to be in!

Sparrows probably have their own existential angst yet they are able to chirp, fly away and find their happiness. In the end, what remains is not in their control, but that does not desist them from being who they are. It is time to live, live like the sparrows, fly like them and also fly solo. In their solitariness they experience life.

Time to hold life in a deference and be alive. The truth is that when one is alive then only one can witness. Those who are not there in this realm must be alive in some other realm. From this realm to the other. From this life to the next. From a gripping truth to the other. Time is on the move.

To Time, I salute and pay respect.

Finding meditative bliss

The emotions within are rearing their ugly selves into a lugubrious melody.
To listen with an attention to the throb of the sensations is an exercise in meditation, the sensations swell up, swim wildly, flushing vicariously and forming an atonement!

The sea within is ever changing it's state, the range it traverses can only be experienced, it's indescribable. A pilgrim doesn't react, only morphs into a silent witness and in that he finds a bliss, a bliss of a meta-physical kind.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before:
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word of a different kind...

- The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

Brutality of time and lost words

Words are really not immortal, are they? With these thoughts, a child wakes up from a slumber. A slumber that took him to the end of a crevice, a crevice lost in time, a crevice dissipated in an agony. The agony was never understood by that child, probably, it was never to be understood. There are these experiences that one can never understand because they are beyond that. One may lavish adjectives after adjectives, use words, be clever with them, yet, the illusion of it all melts away!

Time with it's innate quality of being shatteringly brutal withstands any onslaught.
The child goes back to his land, a land where it's only him and his make-believe world which envelopes him with a bliss, a bliss meant only for him, that which an adult can only be wishful for!