World’s End–The Most Beautiful Place Ever

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.

 

Disperse Into Whispers

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 Art.

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