No. 265

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The tunnel–is a tunnel; the same for the train

The same for the the person hiding from the rain

A shore is a shore;  the same for the sea

And the same for the ship which has to be.

And time is time; for the one who is still

And the one who stares deep.

 Death is all around us

The living and the gone

The Riders and the Sea

Death is all around us

Life isn’t so much so.

The difference is the same; same for the stones

And same for the skin and bones.

What do we know and what do we care

The questions will be questions; for the answers

Answers all feared.

We never stop–and we never begin

SO what is the difference

And what do we care.

It will go on and on and on

Even if it stops–what will be the difference

Between what is and what isn’t.

For the world is the world; the same for the strong

And those who do not dare.time

Disperse Into Whispers

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Humans hold no sanctity over others like them. In each picture that goes undeveloped–humans hold sanctity over themselves. And to themselves they are God.
We- are people who have been brewing venom. And we-are people who have been brewed in the poison of others. The chalices that hold us. Bind us. Yet kill us. And so, we kill each other. With our poison.
Of this. There is no escape.
Humans. Atoms held together in a most unlikely and strange, magical way-want escape.
Held in captivity we try hard to find the key which is to us the elixir. No we don’t pretend. We just try. In this search we get lost in the vacuum. Ah. Good old vacuum. Always there. Always helping?
We huddle in a room. Together and apart from each. Trying to break free. We use words. They don’t help. So we linger. But till when?
We want escape.
To run free. To march in a band. To fly. To run. Be away. From each other. To go ten thousand miles beyond the green.
We never do. Instead we stay huddled. In the same room. And we use the same words. And nothing changes. The same tunes keep playing in the background. Carrying different meaning each time.
We never realize..and we never did–how weary we have become of these charades. We blame each other. Each of us are right.
Then we want to escape. And all in different directions. Never to recoil.
It will be the utter death of everything. A grand escape.

* * *

The atoms thus held are all in movement. When movement happens..strange things happen. The cells are in catastrophe. The truth. Yes it is the delusion. One by one–each atom, each cell, each particle gets uncoiled-uncoil. It starts to break away. To move apart. The skin. The muscle. The tissue. Everything. Breaks free. Everything disperses into a cloud. It all disperses into whispers. There is so much noise. So many whispers. So many secrets. So many sounds.

The Grand Escape.

* * *

“I didn’t go to the moon, I went much further—for time is the longest distance between two places. ” The Glass Menagerie

The Birds Grew Wings

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There was no denying–that the merciless cage only,

Prevented the Birds from soaring up high

Following their rush, up in the sky-which they love.

There was no denying. There never is.

There was no shame–when the cruel master,

Had taken the wings…taken them away

There was no shame.

There was no pain, when the Birds would sing

Not in melancholy, but in vain

Not in forgetfulness but in ignorance

Of the bliss in flight.

There was no pain. There always is.

There was no wonder–that what would happen

If the Birds grew back their wings

Would there be rebellion?

Would there be flight?

Would there be a reason?

Would they remember?

There was no guilt….

The day of the storm–when the wind blew down the cage

When the drapes kept swaying

And the bizarre light kept flashing

When the Birds lay forgotten

There was an escape.

A flutter, a hop, a swing and a flitter

And a swoosh….

The Birds Grew Wings

There was no ego..in their flight.

There was no pride.

There was no remorse. There always is.

* * *

The Birds soon discovered–their wings,

Had always been with them.

They had just been forgetful,

Of wings and flight and the sky

They blamed it on the Man.

There was so much anger. There always is.

* * *

The Birds flew in a sequence.

Midnight Smoke

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The hour of the moon comes. The strangeness of the empty day and empty routine settles. The roads and streets become partially deserted. The only noise is that of stray dogs in cold corners of the wet streets. The only other noise is that of the birth of a life after midnight. The songs and the lights and the drinks and the adventures of copulation. Soon the rancid odors will fill the air. The heaviness of the music will lift the dark. And all will be forgotten. Movement will take the midnight.

Thus comes the hour of the moon and what follows after.

Beyond the greys of the sleeping buildings, outside a small shabby parlor with no roof–no doors and no windows–are gathered a bunch of hooligans. Yes, hooligans for the sane! Playing a sombre tune and two. Now three and now fourth.

Nothing fancy. And everything fancy.

And soon. There comes a shadow. Walking towards them. But they play. Unawares. Around them are the insane–drinking cheap drinks and having a go of cheap cigarettes. A cheap show indeed.

Nothing fancy.

So the shadow moves closer. Closer. There is a noise of the clunking of heels. The first sound of something rich. And the rancid air is suddenly filled with the rich scent of an exquisite odeur. The shadow is a figure. The figure is a person. A woman. Red amongst the dead grey.

The music stops. Heads are turned. There stands glory. There stands grandeur. An emblem of respect. The royalty. Blue blood in all its bloom…. Forgotten the way perhaps, of the mighty rich clubhouse down the lane.

The music starts again. The cheap drinks get passed around. 

The red against the grey. Nothing cheap. Everything fancy.

She sits. She stares. She listens. The midnight. The stray dog whines. Eyes stare at her.

Cigarettes get passed. She takes one. Lights it. The cheapest of all. Inhales. And lets out the smoke of all the richness. Now mixed with the cheap air. Lets out all that is crass. Lets out glory. Lets out all the years of encapsulation, power and delicacy. The fine red silk against the rusty grey. No more.

There is smoke. Common smoke. She dances. No one stares at her anymore. They all dance.

Nothing cheap. Everything fancy.

Thus the midnight smoke comes to an end.

Far away in the parlor, with no roof, no doors and no windows–comes the sound of saxophones and guitars and pianos and tenors and drums….it fills the air. Along with the smoke.

“Midnight comes and out come the dead for a smoke–so they may live again–with those who are dead”

The People of the Strange Town

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You the people, of the strange town,

who bring strange tidings!

You the people, of the unknown time.

You, the people who are not connected

You, the people of the strange town.

You, the people, in flames.

You, the people.

I do not belong.

Neither do you.

I do not surpass.

Neither do you.

I do not transcend

Neither do you.

I do not fly.

Neither do you.

I do not feel.

You…neither do you

I do not belong.

Yet you do.

I stand, while you spite

I stare while you jeer

I ponder while you remark.

I do not belong

While you, you bond.

I am me, and you…

Are neither me, nor you nor us, nor them

I breathe, while you curb.

I do not belong.

Neither do you.

We are not one.

You! The people of the strange town.

The one’s in denial.

I do not belong.

The Light Gave It Away

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Light is our friend and light is deceit and all the same while light is a phenomenon. A call for the oblivious–for the one who is so, is in dark. We all wish for the light. Because in light we feel safe, and secure. As it is in light when we are far away from the wistful bleak rooms and walls of our own thoughts.

It is in light, when miracles happen. It is light, which is a miracle. The blinding miracle–similar to the sand in the deserts where man is secure and insecure at the same time. And light, its intensity is often our savior. Light.

The blurry road–stretching so far away. Yes that road. The only road. The only way. Caught in so much dust. And blur. And shadows. Ah. The enemy.

And there I was. Having to travel that road. The one road. Having to carry the load of the dead dreams and dead poets and dead souls. The road, not less traveled, not far traveled…

So there we all stood together. Me and the dead dreams and the dead poets and the dead souls. We were one. How will we walk. How will we drift. How will time move. How will we see. How will we endure. How will we see. What will we see.

And humans, they stared. They laughed. They talked. We stood. Not very apart. But not very close. That dilemma. The haze. The winds. The people. What do they know? But, they know everything. They still don’t learn. They still ponder, and stare and talk and laugh.

SO i set. Forward. One step. Then another. Then more. The world, a great blur–for as far as the eyes can see. Then soon.

Ah. Light. The light gave it away. The road–was not just the path anymore. It became a twisted void of empty voices that echoed. But, the light–it gave it away.

Soon the friend, soon the enemy. Giving the secrets of the dark away. The enemy.

Discovering

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Lets run in circles. And run on pathways. And after trains. And circles. Discovering isn’t very hard.

Lets just roll over the grass. On hills. And sand. And smile.

Lets dive in the water. Open our eyes. Close them again. Smile.

Lets discover.

It is easy they say.

The question is–what happens after this. After the discoveries. After the running. After the rolling. After the dive.

Should you never open your eyes?

It is easy they say.

There is grey. A book. Of unanswered, undefined patterns. And coffee. And in unending paragraphs–there was nothing to dwell–and everything.

There is a camera. And a canvas. And a sheet of paper.

And patterns.

It is very easy they say.

Discovering.

We don’t know what we are discovering. And we never find out.

We keep running in circles. And follow the same cycle. And then we close our eyes, as we dive into the water.

Discovering.

City lights keep burning out. And so we learn that there is life. But that is not a new discovery.

City lights fade.

Now that is worth discovering.

It is very easy they say.