On the Silk Canvas–were stories painted in gold
Of purple clouds and pink dots in the sky
And cherry colored fountains where people came to–
Throw the yellow coins, and make wishes about forlorn times
And the Painter would stand by the window and glance
Over the shifting blue rocks–from beneath the arid ground
While the silver bird–would often swing by
And stare at its shadow–which looked like that of a broken man
And now and then a hundred unknown faces
Would stare inside the glass door, and find a pungent silence
Hovering over their heads
On the Silk Canvas–were stories rotting away
Of orange doves hanging by strands of black threads
And orchids of grey fatigue tied with white ribbons of defeat-
They arrive at the doorsteps of a brown house made of clay sheets
And the Painter would stand by the glass door and glance
And shut himself away, recoiling once again like a frigid tapestry
Of all the stories–this one makes the most sense. It is the story of coming and going, of circles and commotion, of pictures and pastels and moving trains. Like all stories–no one feels anything and everything happens all at the same time. Like most stories–no one leaves and no one stays. Like no other story–you wait and you fail.
In that dusty room with the dull walls entrenched in gloom–pictures of happy ghosts stared at him. There was smoke but he was not smoking. There were fire flies–thousands of them and they suffocated him. There was a door–which was closed and from the other side he could hear voices of people and laughter and he could not go see what they were and listen to their stories for he did not know what they meant. But the door was not locked–it was just closed. And he did not know the faces of the people even though he saw them everyday–every night–every moment. He did not recognize them. He did not understand the language they spoke because he was not who he was.
There was a storm which brewed somewhere outside the window which was halfway shut–because there was light but not enough light. Outside was just an empty sky–which told him nothing. Outside were children playing on the grass and riding the swings–and he could not tell if they are happy or sad, red or blue, living or dead!
And there was a sparrow which always came to sit on the big willow tree outside his window. It would just look at him with dark melancholic eyes–and he would smile. Because it reminded him of things which were never to happen. Was he happy or was he sad? Was he living or was he dead? Was he a sparrow or was he a firefly? Was he the sky or was he the sea? Could he feel or could he fly?
Those who were outside the room would keep knocking, trying to get in–to peer and to color him purple. They did not realize that time was an abstraction–and there was no time and if there was, they were out of time. His room had no clocks. Just walls which seemed perturbed. And still–there was knocking on the door–they could enter, for the door was not locked and they would stop momentarily and start knocking again.
He did not know anymore–whether it was day or night? Summer or winter? Whether he was or he wasn’t–for he had no mirrors or music or color. He was a vivid figure, a shapeless form who was stuck in a room–that was not even a room but a block.
The storm had taken over him. There was lightening and thunder. And anger and wrath. All, everyone spoke to him in were languages unknown and foreign to him. And he never knew what it all meant. Because he was a paroxysm of empty unhinged feelings.
And every day, before waking up–he would see choirs and songs and bards–and roses on tall trees. There were paintings of naked Greek women and Roman men–and orgies of filthy rabid dogs. Angels sang hymns about the absence…the great Absence. Regret lamented and Glory prayed. And on a rusty bench–a red haired girl sat and kept staring dead at the horizon. And she would always wait for him to come and she would wait for him to leave. So he sits in the yellow train and passes the hazy shadows and pastel colored buildings but the train always goes in circles…
He would wake up in sweats–in the room which is not even a room but a block of clay. And there is smoke around him–and a thousand fireflies dancing above him suffocating him. And from outside the door are noises–unfiltered laughter and conversation. And he does not understand what it all means.
It is a story like all stories. No one enters it and no one ever leaves.
What do you know about living–
The man who died a thousand suns ago
The dancing and the grinning
The lights of the dreamy, dreary shows
The illusions in the darkness,
The light within the foes
What do you know of living–
The dead man from ages ago
Smiling and jeering
Coughing and sneering
The drinks and the drugs
Drinking the wine of shadows
Eating the fruit of deceit
The lustful faces of ghosts
The greedy turfs of the libels
The man who knew of living–
Yes, he died long ago
What is a mirror image? What is it? We all know the answer. But we don’t.
In this microcosm–we are a part of a mirage–of being spellbound, mesmerized. We don’t quite know it, but only because the illusion engulfs us.
But why are we mesmerized in the first place? Because we choose that over reality. Because we are in fact just scared of the truth. And the truth is–that no matter who is there by your side, how many people, pets and friends or lovers–we are alone.
Alone as the space. Empty as the space.
But where did this mirage come from–why is it there? The reason being the fact that we choose being spellbound over reality–the mirage is nothing more than a smoke screen. if the mirage wasn’t there–we’d know the truth. The truth will snap at us.
Truth. What a horrifying word.
Reality. What an abhorrent word.
but these two go hand in hand.
Truth is that this macrocosm will end one day–ending with it the microcosm we are a part of. But we suppress this fact. We linger in hope for continuity. We ignore it.
But our life is a sham.
It is a prose that no one understands–poetry that everyone rejects. Of course there is music in the background–we move to it. But that music is a mirage too.
How do we cater to all this? How do we take it all in, in one go?
We don’t because we cant because we choose not to.
The happy faces–the mesmerized state is but a mirage. You learn that life is a beautiful tragedy. You lean on people who are nothing but a wisp of smoke.
Love–hate. Smile–tears. Happy–sad. Easy–hard.
These are just states. In a transition. Life–death.
You are enough, yet you fall short of yourself.
But we happily linger because we are confused of everything–but we linger in our microcosm which is a mirage of being mesmerized. Because that is what our instinct tells us to do.
We never find out about this microcosm of a mirage of being mesmerized. We don’t dig the layers because it will reveal to us the truth.
Truth. What a pitiable illusion about reality.
Reality. What a curse.
Man has nowhere to go. he is of the earth they say,
But the earth is never his.
He kills and he is killed–he is not safe
Nature bestows but it also takes
Man has nowhere to be
He has developed wings, so he may take charge of the sky
But the sky is just as malevolent–it takes charge of man.
Man has nowhere to hide
He can swim like a fish, in waters deep and freshBut the water devours him
It just makes him bones rot
Man has nowhere to hide
He gets warmth from the fire–which burns him up
It leaves no flesh nor bone
It preys on his blood
Man has nowhere to go
Man has nowhere to hide
Man is the king yet killed like a pest
Man is nowhere safe
Man. Man is a mortal being. A creature who is solitary yet social. He is free yet chained. He has a vortex of emotions within him. Man…is dimensionless.
I am a Kite, full of colors. I fly high. I reach the end of the skies. I play with the wind. I wade through it. When there are two like me, i play along with it. We tussle. We flutter. We come near. We move apart. Yet a time will come, when i will cut its strings..or it will cut mine.
Have you ever experienced the rush. Closing your eyes and feeling the wind hit your face. The feeling of letting it go maybe? Have you ever been able to fly? And opening your eyes to see and feel and hear the wind rush by you. Descended in air.
With or without wings. No matter how far you go…or how near you are, you will feel your hearth thump. It will beat. It will race. Against the closed and cold walls it is heavily guarded with.
No matter what you feel right now. No matter how you got to this point. Remember i will be waiting for you at the end of the tunnel of darkness. I will be there to hold your hand and walk with you, the day you gather the energy.
I will help you feel better. I will wipe the tears, your tears. I will give you courage and strength the moment you are too weak. I will be your breath, if you ever feel like giving up on life.
You know what they call me don’t you. They call me Freedom. And i am yours.