Indian farmlands
Sleepy fields and dreamy crops
Rows and rows stretched out, yawning
Swallow man made huts
A Majestic milieu blossom like fruit
Seedlings sprout
Ragtag farmers like [...never finished this sentence, and there the thought ended, to be revived many years later]
Sitting in this tent at ranthambore, a single consciousness, I reflect on all that flutters around me. A friend on his own journey accompanies me. A mosquito net not in use. A small electric heater quietly chugging away, warming my bones. Lazy day. Restless night. dimly lit. Bundled up, lying, thinking... Searching. Beautiful words escape me. the prosaic feels acceptable today. Tied up, pressured, anxious, the writing is forced. Resting and waiting for my birds to chirp. Outside, people gather. Voices reverberate Iike strings of a lyre. A spontaneous symphony with no composer, no conductor. Crescendos and diminuendos, orchestrated to its own social rhythm. American or India, pick your poison...Or draught or potion or elixir. Ambitions and traditions, acts, events, happenings, the universe is in motion, it is plain to see. galaxies twinkle far off In oblivion. Neither watching not caring, friendly and aloof at the same time. How many eyes and hearts have invested their own existence into these distant heavenly bodies? So far removed from mankind, and therefore so beautiful. we all desire to travel away. The spirit will always climb to higher altitudes than those at which our bodies graze. Meadows in the skies. The spiritual arts lead us there, only briefly. A guided tour all too short, how we long to stay and yet we're soon back in the gift shop.
The world appeared to him like the pages of a book, flipping endlessly before his eyes, a black and white blur of letters and shapes and symbols that he couldn’t wrap his head around. He hadn’t yet learned to read, and so what he experienced in his illiteracy was a mere whirring and flapping of papers, on and on and on. It never struck him that something could be eluding him, though he wondered where the colorful illustrations from his childhood had suddenly gone. And so he went about his business, wandering great expanses of time, advancing from school to college to work, without questioning the muffled hush, the muteness that was his world.
He lived in a city of millions, but the walls of his apartment kept them out. His ears hung out with humanity when sounds trickled in through his windows in the night and poured in during the mornings. The honking and screeching, the blaring of police cars, the wailing of ambulances and fire trucks—it never let up. His friends lived such troubled lives, he thought. He only heard from them when they were busy being cut off in traffic, getting arrested, becoming deathly sick or lighting their houses on fire.
You were so bright, you shined light on my dark side
Perfect sight, still you were blind, even wide-eyed
My plight, Jekyll and Hyde, at times disguised
Misguided, you tried, drowned in the flood tide
Hereby, thereby, what do I imply?
Swallowed pride, we sighed, we cried, we died
