Burning Castles, Flying Mountains

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Where do mountains fly to? And why do castles end up being burned? Questions which no one asks and no one has any answers of. Why do we build up so many questions inside our thick walls of reasons? Where do these questions come from? Why cant we answer them?

This is no story, rather this is an enigma–a puzzle which opens up to more puzzles and more of them. Do we know where we are heading towards and why and what pulls us? Who walks along with us and why don’t they stop? What do we call the millions of dead dreams that we have to carry on our shoulders? Where do we bury them and why cant we forget them?

What is the meaning—the meaning of having so many stars shining up in the night sky while so many dead burning castles in the utter daylight glare at the slowly turning world. Why are we given and bestowed presents and why are they swiftly taken away from us? The music we can hear…and create and fall prey to–where does it come from and why does it come from there?

Who are all the people we meet everyday and smile at and then they smile back so we make small talk and soon they turn into larger than life conversations–all to end up nowhere-because nowhere is as good a place to be. But who are the people and why do they surround us and why do they smile when they can not even recall the last time they had a good laugh? Who are those ghosts in the photographs that we see every time we look at our pictures—just happy, pretending and staring right back at us as if mocking us for being out their alive—but dead. Ghosts mocking at us for being dead.

SO who set the castles on fire? Why did the mountains take flight?

Words, words and more words. Meaningless and fickle and so powerful yet so fragile and so loathsome. Words. My enemies and my friends. Dreams, my bane and my sanity. Happiness–why wisdom. Wisdom–my quest. There is water, but no one is putting the fire out. The fire which burns the castles. How can they?

So here we are, still stuck at questions and still asking around if this is the right way or which is the right way, seldom bothered about why this is the right way…or why this is any way at all for that matter. And here we are, shell shocked because we know there is a way. There always is and we can never see our way around it. This way; o heaven and to hell, to betterment and to the worst of our fallacies, to music and to shade, to light and to dark….so many ways. Yet no shelter and no cure and no where to actually be.

I set the castles on fire. I made  the mountains fly..because no one else would. So the mountains fly and from wayy up in the sky they see the castles being burned down to ash and dust so that it will, travel with the wind towards the mountains and become them. And when they do, they will whisper to each other how there was no way but all there was—was fire and dust and someone who finally let them go. For all they held were empty secrets that no one bothered looking for.

Castles on fire, flying mountains—together we all catch the final breath.

Thus the world turned purple.

 

 

World’s End–The Most Beautiful Place Ever

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No one knows, but there is a place somewhere around in the hidden realms of this world–kept well hidden from the local eye. The eye which meets every other eye, which meets every other eye–the common eye. This place is carved out of valleys and shade. This place is atop the most high mountains. The most secret shores. It is a secret well kept hidden. Upon the lake where water meets the skyline and the Sun is born. And when it grows old, it disappears like sound of silence. This place is called ‘World;s End’ and it is indeed the most beautiful place.

Gold is not gold here, it turns into wisp–golden wisp, so that at every Sun dance there is a hue of gold spread in such a way which entwines with the dark only to make it more beautiful. Here light is not just light–but a magnetic and hypnotic force which makes one–happy. An emotion which was never found, always sought and often forgotten. You see, this place is the horizon of everything that was and will be.

Here love is not born. Hate is not bred. Here neither things happen and none are believed in. Love-hate; the lethal combination which are both feared and both so very common. At World’s End, there is nothing like love to e thought to felt and hate  to be known to felt. That is perhaps why this is the most beautiful place on earth.

Where the silver of the Moon breathes unto the Stars all the secrets which were never known to any one or anything. Here whispers just disperse and go about and here the Nightingales don’t sing but are sung to by the most mellow voice. Tears melt into the skin here and thus begins daytime.

Here the hollow voices and the vacant stares and the empty smiles don’t matter because here they all come to rejoice in the pleasant dark which seems so utterly magnificent–like soft velvet which amalgamates with silk.

This is my World’s End. I come here often, to sing to the lake and watch it turn into an ocean–with waves. Lots and lots of waves. This is my secret. Well hidden from the eye which sees the other eye which sees the other eye- the common eye.

Here i come by, in my solitude–which turns into mirth which turns into Tears shed by God. Finally all turns into vapor and disappears along with the smoke which emanates music–spreading.

Here, dreams dissolve but do not disappear. They take root, like the huge tree which gives life and shade. Rocks made of past—steady but pointy yet important. One can always stand on one and jump into the gushing waters and feel each breath as it folds and unfolds. The body struggling to catch itself. The mind–in control.

I come here often, at World’s End. Every time i come by, i see a world turning and twisting. Screaming and struggling. Breathing and dying. Dancing and flying. All of it, you name it, i can see it, feel it, hear it and….let it go. Every time i come to World’s End–The Most Beautiful Place on Earth– the world begins. Once more. Evermore. Always.

 

You and Me

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Left in the abyss, parched on the top

You and me, me and you

I find in you, what you find in you

I find in me, what no one does

You see in colors what i seek in colors

I seek in me what no one does

You hear in the storm, the beauty of the wrath, i

hear in the storm the wrath of the beauty

I hear in me, what no one does

You seek in you, the inner you

I seek in you, you

I seek in me, what no one does

You seek in me, so you find in me

So you hear in me, so you see in me

Naught else but You

Music of Oblivion

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2011-april-autumn-leaves1Drag the dead leaves within, around

Today when the Hermit goes to work

Faces the music of oblivion

Sets the existence on fire

Breaches chaos

Whistles

Carries the dead leaves within, around

Falls into a chasm…of clay

And out comes dust

And a new world thus made

Of dead leaves, clay and fire

The Hermit goes to slumber

When wakes, sees a world of nothingness

Therein dwell his two souls, the one asleep and the one in a dream

Along with dead leaves.

Senses

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It was a teardrop away they said, forgiveness was

Had they seen it?

It was a second away they said, death was

Had they heard it?

It was miles away they said, happiness was

Had they felt it?

It was glories away they said, dreams were

Did they touch any?

I sat and i pondered.

It was a fragrance. Of lifeless particles in the air

They never said, forgot.

I smelt it.

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.

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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