Saturday, January 19, 2008


If I may, just lay back for a minute to see, the words dancing, colours singing, moments silently whispering new stories, perhaps I would not sit and curse the wind that whips my hair like someone thrashing straw, or I wont call names to that fly that sticks around me even when I am through with my bread jam, perhaps I will not miss him but feel him right beside, perhaps I wont think that there is still too much to be done before this moment can be celebrated, perhaps the epiphany would forever last.
Only if I could feel happy watching the butterfly fluttering around and don’t feel the need to write theories about the wind and velocity, perhaps when I feel things more than I thought about them, I would certainly enjoy what is not than repenting about what is.
Perhaps only if, like so many great people, one day I wake up to realize that I have grown up enough to know what is good or what is bad for me, perhaps if I am able to decide what is it that I want to do, which again lasts only for the moment, coz I am caught unawares by the very next moment that comes around and throws me flat on my face and I realize that it is a new moment. People call me fickle, am I?

I won’t go on to say that I am committed to no-commitment, I want to simply share that this is how I feel. I won’t get into the question of whether it's right or wrong, 'coz it doesn’t really matter any more, the sharing with these words helps me realize one of the various selves that I have.
I don’t believe in changing myself 'coz I am never here nor there, am always in between, always changing, like the water that starts as a trickle from the mountain top covered with snow and flows on to become a gurgling brook, then a river finally reaching the sea, an other world, a new life and I hope to be the trickle that does meet the sea, becomes one with the sea and still stays that first drop of the melted snow at the peak bringing about a complete change in the weather, in time, in existence. Perhaps, I will be.

DIALECT. left to time, it withered, like a dead corpse hung from wall, after the sentence. no poems to defend, no stories to tell, n...