irresoluteness

Like a fly tethered to a string, just about strong enough to let it fly around and yet not snap. Like a drop of water on a waxy leaf. Like three different children holding on to the mom' hands and pallav and tugging in three different directions... Like a just broken string of pearls falling off and bouncing on the polished wooden floor. Like a flutter of sea gulls rushing into flight as the child runs forward to catch them.
Thoughts - all over the place...

lie all the way

Can one live with no links to past experiences? Is it possible to delink/ dissociate oneself from all previous experiences? Words appear in my mind, like tiny bubbles, with all the potential to form a huge one, and then they suddenly burst and disappear into nothingness. All that is left is a faint spray on my face that dries away, even before I can gather my senses to describe it. There it is... Oh! - It is gone, now...

Where does one draw the line between the joy of writing, as compared to the compulsion to write? Does it matter in the end, why one writes? or, even - if one does write at all? What a pity, when one cannot write/ put into words, what they think!

He sat there, stone still... What more could he say? There were no tears, no expressions on his face. He sat there, writing down equations, solving them, rechecking the calculations. If only, he could mathematically solve life, it would be so much easier on both of them. There would be no more unspoken wishes, no wishful, subtle hints, no sarcasm that seemes to fly on top of his head, no foaming anger that he couldnt decipher, no laughs that he did not fathom, no - everything would be what it was on its face value. written and answers boxed off... That is how he liked it.

He would not have to take the absolute value of the laughter and integrate the meaning behind the words. Words spoken from t ranging from the first time he met her to the instance of the fight. Relationships would be one continuous function. Life would be solvable. Life of X could be expressed as F(x) = Lie. That was what it was - one big lie...

An empty house

She came back into the house. Everything was as she had left. Not a leaf of paper had moved. Not a single book out of place. The dishes were still in the sink. One shoe lying on the floor and another beneath the bed. Black panty hose beside it. A copy of Doctor Faustus lying face down, hurting. Unwatered plants dying a slow death. Paint brushes stuck in the wash water and a half finished painting with brief, harsh, powerful strokes. The cushions sprawled on the couch and a throw that was thrown with carelessness.

The silence was overpowering. She could hear it. Feel it in the air, in her breath. Choking and closing in on her. And then she heard it - the faint hum of the computer, the background noise of the cars on the roads, the air conditioning unit running, the clock ticking, the refrigrator starting up...

The house was alive, after all...

if only...

Like slivers of glass beneath the skin
Like the heat of tears singing beneath the eyes
Like one incident repeating itself time and over again,
that nothing remains in memory to separate the instance from the next...

Like the last brown fall leaf clinging to the tree
Like slushy trodden snow that has lost its beauty
Like sheets of rain

So many "if only"s...

If only he had not spoken so
If only she had not taken it so
If only he had asked her to stay
If only she had not walked away

If only he could take back the words
If only she would call him one last time
If only he had not uttered them with so much certainity
If only she had not taken them so seriously

Like the last embers struggling to stay alight
Like a spring straining against being stretched too tight
Like an emptiness that fills the entire space within

If only he would tell her
If only she could ask him
If only he would come to her
If only she would let him

I wonder how it all ends...

words longing for stories!!!

1. Lowest common denominator
2. Processed air
3. Background noise
4. Paper warriors
5. Stacks of pebbles
6. Christmassy depressions
7. Company of lonliness

Art.

He was in the library, walking down the aisles. The tall stained glass windows cast beautiful sinuous shadows weaving designs on the ancient cold stone floors. Floors that shone as if they had been polished, floors that had been worn to shine by the thousands of feet that walked them everyday. He had taken enough pictures for the day. And now he just had to pick up his books from the locker and leave. It was then that he noticed it.

The drops were trickling down steadily. And every once in a while a large one would be pulled by the forces of gravity, to go down faster and meet the previous one, already on its way down. Coalese and fuse together, be swallowed by one another, till their separate identites, no longer existed. And then further down they would go, in one smooth motion.

He had now been watching them fall for over ten minutes. Staring from where he was standing. Totally captivated at their almost periodic recurrence. The occassional rouge drop just seemed to add to the beauty. He wanted to capture it in his lens, in his mind, in every tiny bit of his memory. He did not want to use the flash. That would kill the beauty of the drop and obscure it with all the background details. He wanted long enough exposure, though - for, the stained glass was not letting sufficient light through.

Hell! - If only he could ask her to move over beneath the window and cry!

butterflies

He wanted to ride a butterfly! A big black and yellow monarch one. Despite his size and age, he so badly ached to ride... Alone. No more mom and aunts waiting with cobwebs to catch hold of him, if he fell. He wanted to ride the butterfly from one flower to another, swooshing with the wind and fluttering in the breeze. He had already painted pictures, weaved stories about the daring, brave adventures that he and Mishula would have... They would understand one another perfectly, swooping down at the last moment, escaping from the gaint spider and he would take Mish to the secret honeysuckle groves... They would have so many adventures together.

He had spotted Mish yesterday. Among the hundreds of other butterflies that were fluttering up and down in the breeze... It was love at first sight. He knew that Mish was the one for him. Before he decided to take the plunge and talk to Mish about his plans, he had to show Mish to his best friend... He imagined her smile and rapture at seeing so fine a fly as Mish. Broad black shiny wings, with a velvetty coat of fine thin hair. And myriad yellow - red designs that one could make out in a crowd. And the serration of the wings... And the graceful elegance of his flight and swoops and glides... Oh - it was like seeing music! It would definitely be one proud elf seen riding on Mish! How he wanted to be that one... And he wondered if the two of them could ride Mish together.

He got her to the field of grasses, daisies and dandelions, where he had spotted Mish first... He had eyes only for her and Mish. He longed for the look of approval from her. She just saw a field of grasses, daisies, dandelions and hundreds of butterflies...

He lost his loves in that one instant of non-recognition - of the most handsome butterfly he thought he had ever wanted to ride and the most beautiful elf he had thought he had fallen in love with.

Finding fairy tales

Cool breeze, wafting through mint fresh hair,
An unconscious beauty and untainted hope
A new beginning. A new life.
The star flies...

In search of fairies and their tales!
Frogs and witches,
Princes, unicorns, Second hand lions and Dandelions,
Butterfly wings and why it was 42...

This shall be a metaphorical blog. An experiment at semi-personal blogging.