Burning Castles, Flying Mountains

Standard

parallax-sounds-poster

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 madeĀ  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.

 

 

The Light Gave It Away

Standard

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.

Waltz

Standard

Sitting in front of a screen on which there is a blank space which will soon be filled with numerous figures we like to call words…..is like space itself staring straight into the dark abyss of empty matter where these words reside perhaps. Words which will like a wasp, sting and surprise you and me.

Realization. The mother of all agonies. In a simple moment, so much can be seen of the future, so much recalled of the past and so much wasted of the present. But how often do we treat the present like an abnormal third wheel in a perplexed reality which is precisely the tense and complicated romance between the past and future.

How often does realization ruin so many dreams. How often does it pile dirt on the neat folded sheets of the white trust.And how often does it simply close chapters and books that you so foolishly and so very majestically and beautifully entwined knowing how hard it was to tangle and untangle the words. Words which sting and surprise and all.

* * * * * *

The man sat there with astonishment on his face while he stared at the glass of milk he was about to drink. And while he sat there, in a far off land a cellist played the symphony that made no sense, and so much sense. And the painter sold the last painting he drew of her. In the empty street who was there running after the faceless figure in the crowd of people that no one could see? And in the dark room where voices disappear what was that light? The words written on the note–no one bothered to glance.

But the man drank the milk. The cellist played on. The painter stopped to look at the sun setting. The faceless figure wandered on. Who was there..was a mystery. The light went out. The words-unnoticed.

A million white roses appeared. Children played on. The sky changed color. The sparrows and the ravens and the swans–all danced. The empty hallway–remained empty on weekdays. Dust gathered on the table. The stars were forgotten in the glow of neon signs. The stars were remembered in the day light.

The writer…the writer sat staring at the empty space on the screen which would soon be filled with words. The writer sat there…realizing.

* * * * * * *

The brilliant cloak we all carry was a sham. No one understood why. We all understood why. Nothing was questioned. Or perhaps it was. But the train never stopped.

Realization is a benevolence and a sin. And we are all humans. That is the greatest paradox of all.

Threads

Standard

Stories make up half of our life, atoms make up the other half. Threads-bind these halves and make the two rights-right…as long as one believes in that.

Threads are strands of twisted fragments of fibers held together–to hold together–things. Threads are pieces. Threads are twisted pieces. They bind together things-which are apart, which need to be less twisted. Twisted fragments to un-twist.

Threads bind together the missing pieces from the past to the motionless present to the blurry visions of the far ahead, the future. Just think for one moment. Do they really? Are all of these really bound together?

The present gathers dust because we can not bury the past and sometimes because we want to see the end. In all this, the motionless present gathers dust. And we become the forlorn images of a forgotten bliss and build inside huge walls of solitude.

Maybe none of this makes any sense. Maybe it makes a lot of sense. Maybe it doesn’t even matter.

Ever wonder why and hoe music stirs so many emotions inside us? Has it something to do with the brain? Or the damaged machine we call the heart? Or both? Both. Both are bound.

We are humans. Not threads. We may be bound to each other. But. We are not threads. We get attached, and detached. We can be one, and many at the same time. We are humans.

With souls. With deranged bodies, where the soul rests. With perplexed emotions, that we have to carry.Carry because otherwise, we are just a mass. We have eyes..which can dream, which can see. Which can recognize colors. And be deceived sometimes.We have hopes-which are fathomless. We have a heart–frazzled. A mind–bewitched. And we are tired, but restless. We exist. But we are not threads.

We are imitations of each others and so different. We are not twisted fibers that hold together things. and we are. We are not threads. We are imitations of threads..or it, ours. Entwined. Complex. Detailed. We are humans.

Our existence is a plan. A frightful sleep with the eyes open. An awakening with eyes tightly shut. A path. Just a path. A story with many chapters and poetry and prose and morals and an end. All bound together by various threads of countless things. It takes one single motion which cuts the cord. Does it all scatter?

We are humans. Threads stitch us. Maybe this makes no sense. Maybe this makes a lot of sense.threads

Maybe. It doesn’t even matter.

An Excerpt

Standard

“I look at faces to hear voices coming out from a hollow soul within their empty selves

and find myself in a pool of misery so i can look at

faces and recognize the voices and it is a circle of

so many broken dreams, and torn faces and ugly reality

that in the end….

no one comes out wining.”

23.7.2014

Copper

Standard

Let’s discover Time together. See what happens. How it does so.

Your wrinkled face will tell you that the person you see in the mirror is not you. Is it really you?

Let’s shine together. In our dullness, let’s just shine.

Copper. Just copper.

Let’s see everyone else fly high while we stand below. Shooting them down?

No. Lets build wings. From scratch.

Let’s dig for diamonds.

Wade through the triumph-the sea-the delusion.

Copper. Is it?

What is this music that goes about? While i watch everyone dance!

Let’s get away from here. Run. Hide. Up. Far. Below. Lost. Vanish.

Copper.

Clink our glasses to a toast. Smile. Laugh. Talk. Lie.

Copper

The Art.

Standard

How fanciful is it–that we are all artists. You and me both! While you color the figments of your imagination with the brush of your technique all over the canvas–you are an artist–maybe the best in your work. And me! I am the master at the art–the art which taught me how to stand on my feet–where the only brush i use is the brush of strength and the only canvas is of letting go. yes we are all artists. You and me both! While you create pictures–I have mastered the art of losing.

“For the art of losing isn’t hard to master!” Elizabeth Bishop