“On many long journeys have I gone. And waited, too, for others to return from journeys of their own. Some return; some are broken; some come back so different only their names remain.”

Reasons and the Night

Winters are leaning at the doorway.. The best time of the year..
When the mundane is stripped to bones and lain bare. When there is perfect excuse to turn around and turn away.
When the cocoon calls for hibernation. And the cocoon is ignored for the joy of the biting wind.
Cold.
Angry.
Familiar.
Real.


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Free will

A question had lingered for years and the air around it murky forever.
A question about a falling feather, a broken leaf, a dried flower ...barely keeping up with the breeze.
There was no answer to the question , only some choices to be made.. when the time came.

The time's come and gone.The air is murky as ever. The question still lingers.
There is no free will & there are no choices to be made.




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Old conversations

Today she deleted some memories.
Searched them out, from the corners of the drawer, the old bags, chip cards.
All semblance if what would call her back.
To overwhelm.
Drag down.
It took forever. And she watched them all drain away.

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Fires

Flares rise up and eat my world
one finger at a time

Again

Sunny day, bright sunshine, smell of rain in the air and promise of exhilarating retail therapy. All alone. Company of a faithful plastic pal .
The cherry on the already juicy goey loaded chocolate cake , 4 letter words spelling a world of promise, proclaiming the end of another season.

Nothing could be more perfect.

Look up. And peering from the other side of the window, looking into her eyes, was what once was everything and then ceased existing. A shadow of ghost from dusty forgotten yesterday. 

A blink.
And the ghost turned and walked away, hands tucked into pockets, eyes searching feet. Maybe embarassed, maybe nostalgic. Maybe just sniggering at wide eyes and shaky hands.

The sun was too strong, and the stench of the wet earth overwhelming. The crowds too loud and the promises ugly.




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Tales of Volcanoes

Every morning she has tea with the story teller. Because it is good for the heart he says. She smiles and listens as he rambles on, about the village of his childhood, the one with blue sandy beaches and democracy and communism. He's crossed distant seas too, in different circumstances, to find calm in a foriegn land. But his eyes sparkle  and dance as he explains, haltingly in a foriegn tongue, how the weather was beautiful in summer but ugly in monsoon. How back then there were no roads to get to or away from home. He talks of the exotic fruits in his backyard, and the volcanic ash that covered thier homes and wasnt too cruel on them. He has stories, everyday, more fascinating each time and in those dancing eyes she sees the exotic foriegn lands she may never set foot on.

He's right. Tea is good for the heart.


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