Glittering Gold

Not all those who wear black are villains.
God’s name is uttered even by those that are not saints.
Not all saints utter God’s name.
Some endings are the start of a story.
Some stories never end.
Not every alarm is a wake-up call.
Not every slumber makes you miss an opportunity.
Not every friend is forever.
Not every enemy is forever.
Not every path has a road sign
Not every road sign leads you along a path
Not all debts are yours to repay.
Some favours are best forgotten.

Not all that you say will be heard.
Somethings that you want to say, are best left unsaid.

Understanding Distance

When you are close by, you never look.
Miles away, you go out of your way.

Nomad

There isn’t enough land to live on. We seek people’s minds. We live there too. We walk away. Yet in their minds we remain. Sometimes we think so; sometimes they think so. Then we meet again — while we are living elsewhere. And we talk of being in a single place. They say a few things and we are often pulled back by memories. Sometimes we never remember. We treat that as new information. A dream.

Part of us moves back in, reluctantly. For things that once probably were. For things that could be. We never know. We are hesitant.

There isn’t enough land to live on, we live in their mind.

It is Dark

All around me it is dark. the only light I see is a glare - the source and the recipient at the same time. Into this source, the small idea comes alive. It gets written in black - in white light.

Of Things

Of retired Gods; reluctant Gods
Of being pulled out of retirement
Of seeing the smoggy cityscape from a clear village sky
Of believing: in yourself and others’ belief in you
Of empty celebrations
Of tentativeness
Of being true, to yourself and others
Of new heavens
Of wishful abodes
Of getting there, or not
Of feet heavy as lead
Of hearts heavy with baggage
Of undoing yourself; being yourself
But mostly
Of Clay Gods, made every year, immersed ten days later, forgotten for 355 days.

The Insides

It has been a while. A long ignorant while. It is tightly shut, perhaps the rust has fused the buckle. Coupled it for eternity. It is dead silent like a moonless night in a forest without a breeze. Life, devoid of its existence; convincingly impersonating death. Native knowledge whispers of life, lingering, with the possibility of a possible life. There is a metallic smell on the fingers. A fingernail cracked while opening the lid. It hurt. A faint taste of the pain inside. Chronic. Sharp. Long endured. Brown specks dot where the dead tissue separated and fell. Try the other side. The hinge. Break, what kept it together all this while.

It has been a while.

It is now open.

There is perspiration. One bead splatters on the rust and makes it dark. Browner than the earth. Inside, is all that was refused and denied all these years. Shock and surprise paint the face in colours that refuse to reflect. An utter stranger, who was once very well-known

I have new clothes.

Red Tremble

There was a slight tremble in his hands as he brought the pencil closer to the ruler. The fingers of his left hand pressed down hard on the metal ruler, keeping it in place, aligned along the spaced out ten-inch dots he had measured earlier. He was almost angry with his right hand as it trembled, ever so slightly, the graphite approaching the metal. With every passing second, his anger grew and so did the pressure of his left hand, making his fingers grow white, as blood stopped in its tracks.

Once upon a time, now.

Once it was like that
Now, not.
There are visions of how it was. You see them, I do too.
Now it belongs to someone else.
We planned that we would give it away.
We did.
We don’t quite like them, who took it.
Did we give to the wrong ones?
Did the wrong ones take it from us?

Patience

A virtue I never had. A virtue I don’t vie for.

This one time, when the two come together and patience will be tested, will I be able to hold my ground, look away, stay back, let time flow?

No instance so far is any indication.

Effect is so over-rated.

The Colour of the Furniture

I know the furniture; I know the room. It is the same house. The colours are different. Something about the layout; yet isn’t every chair and table in the place it is supposed to be? I almost recognise everything.

There, that’s a new chair.

It isn’t so much about the place as much as it is about me. My environment has changed – this place is responding to my changed environment.

I stumble.

And I mentally kick myself. I need not have stumbled. I knew this was to be different.

I am used to flop in the couch without checking for the couch’s existence.

Unlearn
Delearn
Relearn

Adaptability is a factor of being comfortable in any environment. None is really better than the other. They are different. Better is a factor of what works for you.

When you settle in an environment, any environment is willing to be the earth that you can rest on.

Question is, are you willing?