Deep Recess
What you can never say, can still be said. What is understood, well . . .Archive for Abstract
Destination: Journey
He held one end of the long thread in his left hand, between his thumb and his index finger. Tightly. As if his life hung by it.
He knew the thread was red, before he slowly closed his eyes. With the index and the thumb of his right hand, he held the thread, leaving just about an inch of the red thread between what he held in his left and right hands. The left hand still tightly holding one end, he started moving his right hand away, along the thread.
As he ran his pinch along the thread, he felt the texture of the weave of the thread. After a while, the texture and the pull made tunnelled grooves between his fingers, the friction giving way and the thread passing through without resistance.
The feeling of the thread passing through his fingers was an experience that he sought. He didn’t want to find the other end of the thread. Though he knew he would eventually reach the end of the thread, that was only an indicator of the end of the experience. Nothing more.
This Life
We bring this life in a simple stream so that it can one day go and become one with the sea.
Dove
In my being me you saw someone else and held a mirror to my face. I saw that and what I saw in that mirror reflected on me. I became a different me. When I became that me, I did not recognise myself in my mirror. I remained a stranger to myself. For a while. The me in my mirror then reflected back on me and I become the me that I used to be.
But I lost some of the me that I was. I am now me, but parts of me, I don’t recognise.
I wear makeup now, till my real me shines back again.
Two Guys
Two guys fighting.
One called I Belong.
The other called I Don’t Belong.
I Belong kept pulling inward.
I Don’t Belong kept pushing outward.
No one was winning.
No one was losing.
Both were equally strong.
I Belong said to I Don’t Belong:
“You don’t belong because you do not want to belong.”
I Don’t Belong replied to I Belong:
“You don’t really belong, you are just used to belonging.”
I Belong said to I Don’t Belong:
“You are just like me, you know, all you need to do is believe.”
I Don’t Belong replied to I Belong:
“You are just like me, you know, all you need to do is wake-up.”
Green & Red
Green and red of the traffic lights refracted on the drops of rain on the windsheild.
Rain becoming the accused of the murder of good times. Why do people hate the rain?
All the familiarity goes away one day, some day. Nothing remains your own.
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.
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.
