Clandestine.

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I have nothing to say right now. In fact i have nothing to write or think. In this silent bid to be at peace, there is noise. This is a world. A small plan. A fragment of an immeasurable universe. Of space. And vacuum. And spirits. And sounds. And noise. And silence. Catastrophe followed by cure. But i have nothing to say today.

We are all a creation which is clandestine. The larger plan…clandestine. I have nothing to say.

If you scratch the surface and the pore of any particle of any element of anything, you will find melancholy and despondency at its very core. Thus we all celebrate a history of sadness. Never together. In isolation. Most do. But..i have nothing….to think.

The poets and the saints and the sages and the vagrants and the vagabonds and the sailor and the martyrs and the soldiers and the child and the human and the not so human–everyone and no one…dwell here and there, linger and stop. And wonder where emotion comes from and where does it go…and what is vacuum and what is dark and what is light. But that, i can not think about.

Time. What an enigma. What an unasked question. An unmasked parable, conundrum and….

Do we make time or does time make us. Who creates who….Who destroys who? Who? Why? And how! We stare vacantly at time, and we do nothing. And nothing becomes everything…. Yet i have nothing much to say.

In clandestine hope, some wait for time to rot and the world to reverse and become undone and some hope for it to keep going so and some simply hope for silence. This is a hope where we all vacantly stare in darkness so we can see something and we desperately cling to the light hoping that it does us good. It never lasts.

In clandestine hope…we wish to unfurl beneath the great blue gig up in the sky. The unfathomable. The void. And what not…We die every minute in hope o get rescued.

But….i have nothing today upon which i can brood. And ponder. I am not at ease. Nor at peace. Nor in a state of melancholy. Neither in a state of  ecstasy.

Clandestine…….

 

Let There Be Silence– Smoke In My Face.

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In the shadows that falter somewhere. Somewhere the ghosts whose cries of solitude and despondency cuts through the air–shrill, sad.

While we become restless–because of the thousand faces we see in the mirror. The million and one voices that we hear when we are alone.

It is all there. We are at a loss maybe.

In each greeting, we hear whispers.

From a vantage point we stand alone–hearing the bleeding world howl.

And from there we hear the birds being happy.

And from there we hear dreams coming true.

And songs and music.

And death and whispers.

Shhh.

Let there be silence.

Let there be dark.

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The visible vapor. Is it mist? Where does it come from?

Now it rises.

Now it turns dark.

Now it dissolves in thin air–making it thick.

Now it rises again.

Where does it come from?

Me.

IS it my soul?

Is it?

It comes and it rises–dissolving into air.

It leaves me–there while i stand at the vantage point.

It’ll come back to me–i know.

Is it heading towards salvation?

Being chastised?

There it rises–like mist.

There is smoke in my face–and it is me.

So i keep standing there–at the vantage point…listening to the silence

smoke