Deep Recess
What you can never say, can still be said. What is understood, well . . .Archive for Choice
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.
When?
When does it become too much to bear?
When do you call it a day?
When do you stop giving chances to those that will keep taking more?
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.
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.
What’s Life…
…if life makes decisions for us, rather than we making decisions for life. And anyway, who is life?
Things change.
You start off with an idea in your head, know it to be so true, each organ and cell in your body agrees. you even work towards it – work hard. it is almost a reality even. and just when you think that the dream is about to come true and present itself magnificently and parade in front of you, there is just that one small thing that you need to finish before it is perfect. Over a period of time, many such small things that would contribute to the chiselled perfection that you now imagine keep presenting themselves as options. you keep adding to your idea – the ultimate glorious death of a dream.
Things change.
Suddenly one day you look at the half-finished idea of yours and you don’t recognise it. all of it makes sense – each component there is as you put it in place. Yet there is a distinct foreign characteristic to that idea which doesn’t please your discerning eye. You try and remember the original idea. You then see the ultimate truth.
Things change.
Unreliable
Intuition is a very bad form of communication. Even more so, if you expect to rely on the other person to use it to get your message.
I am Same
I am the same. The same for which you chose to walk along with me. Yet it is my being me that doesn’t make sense anymore. I didn’t keep pace.
I chose not to. Our strides, it seems are different.
You Murderer…
How will I live with the one click that my index finger just executed? That little, hardly noticeable action – poured water on many hopes, made insignificant the sweat and toil of many, and stabbed the dreams that were nurtured day and night.
I was one of the many who were murdered. I was the one who killed.
