Deep Recess
What you can never say, can still be said. What is understood, well . . .Archive for Reality
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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?
Deafening Silence
As if it was an oxymoron. He laughed out loud – he needed to know if his ears were capable of listening to that which came from without. The silence is without, the shrieks, within.
All the voices that he would have otherwise heard from without were screaming gibberish within. Imagined gibberish, at that, for he could not decipher what was the sound of imagination and reality. The only real thing were his ears. He touched and felt them to reassure their existence.
The voices of yearning continued their loud babble, irrespective.
Three Spaces
Anger on the palm of the hand, transferred hard on the middle of the steering wheel. Rain lashed hard in the small tanks of water it created where once roads were. The big heavy drops make the tin roof tremble, my heart shudders in the middle of the wet night.
I saw multiplicity of my past life through a blackened window car. I saw myself standing there on the street, looking at myself. I didn’t smile, nor did I look away. I just looked as if multiple tenses stood there together hand in hand.
Three spaces strung on a string of the dimension of time.
