Orange Eye and the Mirror

It’s morning now. The rays of sun passing through the clouds, like the undone hair spread on a girl’s face wakes me to a new bunch of ideas, undiscovered yet. The lazy breathe of the nature in synchronization with mine, pushes me for yet another day, full of excitement, freshness and the strange uniqueness. In this moment of acute amazement, I try to justify how each day passes onto another with minimum feel of change. But with a little change of perception on all the small things we take for granted, life is vibrant, its mystic colors and magical tune that relates toes with toes connects lives like a mirage.

I get up to the mirror, and see how unkempt I look. Roughness today is very trendy. It defines the youth and its own defined coolness. But swallowing the big lump of reality, that people like me ignore for the sake of not understanding our own stand on it, I reconcile my arguments with what is acceptable to my mind. We criticize it, we discuss about the pros and cons of everything new and its resultant culture formation in parlors, parties and public, but with every word that we speak against it, we tend to realize the green signal that each one of us has given it in our lives.

Politicians, parents, lecturers and friends try to shape our ideas and conceptions about the world and its behavior, but we never actually resign our minds to it in our lives. What we bring into realization is what we see, analyze and finally believe. Perceptions may be different, but truth remains the same, raw, nude and simple.

The sun has now risen over the horizon, and what I actually believe has lost its importance, till the next morning sun opens its orange eye on the mirror.


A Story of Time

Of roses and love, and stranger signs;                                                                                                   Yelling in its sound flattery defied.                                                                                                     Crossing the river, a bridge of stones                                                                                                         The water fragile, the rock did know.

Over the years its story kept;                                                                                                                   Merging the depths, a few mountains sacrificed.                                                                                   The thorns of the path had fallen back;                                                                                                     It swayed its way until the clarion call;                                                                                                   Faith, time and patience did change all.

Finding Reasons to Sleep

Sometimes there were no explanations because the things that were meant to be comprehended had long lost their value and people who were likely to have any sense of understanding had left their paths and accompanied others to doom. So to allow myself apprehend the abhorrence of past events, I close my eyes. I am amazed by the complexity of the moment. Scattered and dark, they fill my mind space and the shutters of my eyes are forced open, as I feel short of breath. Why does the past scare? If I ask this question, people may say that I have feared to move on. But, have they either? Have not their lives been also disgusted and choked by the weeds of the past? The answer though simple, is never known.

Tired by the gusty wind of events, I go to bed early in the hope that all pains, both physical and emotional, will sink within so that I can doze off for a warm sleep. But I do know that this will not happen. Because loneliness is no excuse for sleep, and neither is sleep an excuse for boredom. Tomorrow, all these words will appear useless because till then the mists of unawareness and the shadow of time would have deep penetrated my heart, plundering me of my desire to cling on to this situation. But did not I, myself want to run from where I stand today.

Running into things does not give us peace and nor does finding solutions, in this case. The need is to accept, acknowledge and acquaint the moment. And so, I open my eyes, get up, lazily stretch my body and funnily again creep back into my bed for a sleep.

Was this gesture of my mine important? Others including me will obviously say, NO. But things always do not need to be directed by right or wrong. Sometimes their occurrence is necessary beyond any justification and their importance though of no value, flips our facial muscles from an ‘n’ to ‘u’.  This power cannot be underestimated.

Sleep as long as you can, in peace not in fetters. My cell phone beeps in the tone of a good night message. Will it be a good night? May be or maybe not. But it is night and I need to sleep.

I did sleep like a king. I’m a little concerned about the kind of sleep kings have. Should I be ashamed of this concern? Bah! Who cares!!

My Folded Pages

On the table sits my remarkably simple diary. The ink has sewn my history into a beautiful garment of remembrance. Much has been written and much still left. There is absolutely nothing in it that I would like to change. All the good, the bad and the ugly. They are mine and I shall accept it with grace. The folded pages of my life are the milestones upon which I stand. These are the milestones in my journey of becoming the man I am now and the man I am yet to be.

Often when I revisit these folded pages, I find myself searching for the ones that I am hesitant to go deep into. The reluctance of my heart drowns me in the deep waters of the unknown. I gasp for breath, fighting with all that I have and all that remains to swim back to the surface. The more I try, the more I am pushed into its depths. The water surrounds me, and I am haunted by the worthlessness of my life. The darkness finds congruence with my worst fears.  I look at the sun speckled surface from below, and I find hope. It gives me new strength. The time has come to unfold the page. It’s amazing as to how you find yourself in hope. Of how against all odds; of all the things that failed you; of all the things you knew you never wanted to do, but you did, you recover. When the epitaph will read your name, there will still be many folded pages. Many things will remain unsaid, and till the end of time its silence will persist.

Time is mischievous in its deeds and we are all deceived by its sanctity. But this does not doom your life meaningless. What little we did, what little we saw, we felt, we spoke, all of it did mean something. Our folded pages are not some scars to be covered up. Our folded pages are the lights, which liberates us from the chain of darkness concurrently creating shadows.

My journey is long. I will need these folded pages to keep moving ahead, to find the strength, the courage to keep pursuing the eternal dream of my soul. While treading the path, many more pages I will fold. When hopes dwindle, I will find escape in them. In these recurring escapes, my hope will be renewed. And at the end, if there is any such end, I will bow down and let it go. There will be no words of gratitude, no sign of farewell, all that will be is silence. The soil will be turned over. New flowers will bloom some day.