Monday, December 24, 2012


"Life is no less difficult than Pi's " -the gem was from a very dear friend currently typing away from a far off land.

How come the new year has to start with stinging cold? It adds a bit of blue on to all the collective disappointments. One has to start the year with a song on lips, cheer in heart and all that jazz.

But, self has used up most of coffee powder hope. So, going against the grain to start off the year with a  whiny post:p


There is a broken mirror, a broken sail. All the work and sweat didn't go anywhere. It is still stuck in land. The sea visits routinely, all salty and taunting and giggly and wavy. Was supposed to ride over and go some where.

Love alias whatever they call it  died, of natural causes in extreme old age. Have been an extremely pesky emotion to carry, a betaal on your shoulder. Even the ventilator gave off after long years, tired and harassed.  Funeral was peaceful and disco lights gave their blessings.

The wind drops in regularly, blowing away the very few possessions; like the idea of a warm fire side. Is back to collecting logs of wood. The lone torch for times like these is in another continent.

 Mortality arrives as crabs packed in carefully worded message bottles at usual intervals. Used to throw them away in some memory attic. Now, the crabs are all over. Their fiery orangeness covering the calm mellow of  sand.

May be need to hit the mountains and wear the robes of the monk for a while. To stock up on the depleting provision of zen. So as to be able to wear the anklets of the dancer again, the hardiness of the maker of sails, the tranquility of one who floats broken bits in the river, with a candle on top to guide them on their way to eternity.

Monday, December 3, 2012


Haven't walked with the wise one..haven't stopped collecting mustard seeds of desire from red and blue doors. Haven't stopped  free falling with the recklessness of an emotional fool on imaginary wings.

Yesterday the priest left the  loneliness of the temple -  stones with silly makeup,wild flowers with the strange smell of obscurity,  water which can never stay still anywhere. Left every thing for the mountains, to find the atheist God.


Am a box maker, forever packing and re packing, waiting for buses, trams, planes, cycles..which may or may not arrive. That is a nice little bag, will sit across the shoulders. Can walk miles and miles and miles till a headlight decides to shine somewhere. Put those rocks of hope inside, though they will break my back. The bag will be feather light without them. But should believe that one day, right on the top of an icy morning, they will fly out of the bag to become little stars across a small balcony, drenching every thing around in rainbow colors.