Isn’t it funny how empty spaces around us take us back to empty memories which we did not even make ourselves. And empty dreams which we see–as vivid as they can be–trying to find recluse in them. We try not to wake up. Because we are no more the warlords, the princes or the goddesses we were in our dreams when we wake up. We can no longer weave pastel shaded threads around empty spaces and call it home when we wake up. And we are never out of breath—suffocating–in our own beings when we go to sleep.

That little girl wearing a blue skirt and a yellow shirt with a pink flower on it–saw an Orange Swan and ran to her father—“Daddy! Look an Orange Swan! I Saw and Orange Swan!”. He laughed at her, “Ha ha…there are no Orange Swans–only White and Black ones darling. It is just in your imagination.”

But she had seen an Orange Swan. For it waded the purple river and spread its bright orange wings and looked at her from the side of its wistful eyes and then disappeared into the misty horizon. And she wanted to run along the river–in order to see it one more time. She never did for she never could. And that was the day the inner child in her broke and dispersed into thin vapor. And she would never see that little girl again–for she disappeared too–in a horizon which could not be seen.

And one day–she dreamed of a flower field–with grey flowers which had no scent and they were all wilting. There was a rusty ground and the stench was of death and stagnation. And she found a pond of thick blood and she took a swim in it and she drowned. After that–she never woke up again but when she finally opened her eyes–an Orange Swan was waiting for her on the end of the horizon so she ran towards it. She saw a little girl wearing a blue skirt and a yellow shirt with a pink flower on it. And they both looked at each other and laughed and rolled down the cotton hill.

They saw a tulip field and ran towards it–and they built a ladder made of tulips which descended towards the green sky which had a hundred brown clouds just floating about in it. They would live in the clouds from now on. And they laughed and climbed. Climbed and laughed. All of it until they were not two people but one which was no longer human. And as this Entity reached the clouds–it could not get in because the clouds were made of thick shiny glass. And the Entity suffered. So it sat on the tulip ladder and cried.

And lightening struck, the glass clouds shattered and the ladder broke away–and there was no hope. Everything was a neon blue and there was tumult. So the tired and sad Entity flew down and sank in the bottom of the red river. Nothing was left there in that world but a wistful looking Orange Swan.

Empty spaces become diluted into macabre nothingness and we sit on see-saws and swings and become thoughtless paintings. Orange Swans and Tulip Ladders and Glass Clouds surround us. And we suffocate in our hopes and dreams and wish we never wake up again. Empty spaces take us no where and empty memories are a torment. We become Orange Swans–gliding and wading into misty horizons which don’t exist.


I Will Close My Eyes


Was it a full circle?
Is it a vice
If it is death, then I will close my eyes
The cracks have now reached the end of the road
Darkness leaps from door to door
The Swan glided while the Raven danced
If it is death then I will close my eyes
But the mountain fire raged in an orange glory
The stars seemed to be fading
The ocean had turned black
And if it is death then I will close my eyes



When Death ruled the valley of fear
Destiny cried with a misery for the dear
But they went to find the valley of the dead
And saw that fear ruled it with a certain debt
Hidden away in a mortal plane
The immortal seized the valley of fear
Only to find–it was nothing–
Nothing but the death of a dear
One can see and one can choose
To keep the eyes blind
But the two valleys–out of them,
One would win and the other…

No. 265


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



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.