rekindling desires, that road

Something nudged me towards a path long forgotten
hidden behind so many leaves of long entwined webs of undisturbed branches
dew drops strewn on the ankle high grass
a few little wild flowers with a sympathetic, all knowing smile on their lips
the white mist hanging, heavy with sweet smells of lingering hopes

I gather my soul on a leash lest it gambol down blind along the path, mesmerized and expectant;
the path forsaken, forgotten, dark green, deep, un-trodden, untrue;
ah it beckons me so,  tugs- my heart, my mind,
to trample, with tender tentative steps, the green beds of grass,
to walk in search and to walk to the endless end,
the end I have never known , but have desired ,ever since desire I have known;
leaving behind my cross of indecision, the scars of the unrequited and dread of loosing much and finding none in the unforgiving woods;
oh how my soul coos, to walk for once,tender and pure, guileless and true
that untrodden road, that path of the blessed

this morning

Couldn't find a reason to spring out of bed this morning,

couldn't hear the chirping of birds calling out another new dawn;

couldn't see through the window blinds, the nubile rays of the morning sun shine,

couldn't feel the sleep drugged mind, letting out its playful sigh at my soul's smile;

Woke up to find the winter closing all around, the morning chill in the air, much like the one within.

Prelude: Dew drops and dreams

As the man with a scar on the left side of his face, looked back down the dark alley, a salute more to habit than fear of any dark shadows following, he could no longer remember if that was a summer of love or a summer of hate. Not that under the bright shining sun the answer mattered any more, but the man never seemed to run out of amazement at another umpteenth realization that his opinions, interpretations and most of all his character had changed a little every time he checked back.

With a smirk playing on corners of his lips, the man turned his back to the alley and faced the sun; in the manner that he did this simple thing, there seemed to be a certain finality, a certain irreversible end.

The sun rays burned down the scar and rays seemed to jump all around reflecting from the jagged edges. As was his wont, the man ran the index of his right hand slowly down  the edge of his scar, the simple act seemed to enlarge the smirk on his lips. 

There is a certain magnetism, that has its genesis, in paying the dues for one's karma; the anonymous man seemed to possess plenty of it. Most men get worn out by the burden of this magnetism but not him or maybe the facade was too real to fool most casual onlookers.

The man sat down on the small parapet by the road, looking far into the hidden ends of the shimmering lake, his poise would have suggested a man deep in meditation with eyes glassed and fixed on a certain unknown hidden somewhere far beyond. 

Sitting by the shimmering lake, the man knew that it was time to begin, not necessarily at the beginning, but begin he must; to recount the tales, of the faraway lands, of forbidden canyons in his mind and the endless green meadows in his heart. 

To tell the tales of adventure and long boredom, of valor and abject surrender, of faith and betrayal, of hope and despair, of the things he knew and the things he thought he knew, of the things he  forgot and the things he wished he could forget.

Sitting motionless on that sunlit morning, as the wind picked up across the surface of the lake and tousled his hair, he knew that even though his journey had ended, a voyage had just begun, a voyage of self acknowledgement, of pearls found while rolling over nasty waves, a voyage of dreams, some fulfilled, some unfulfilled, some just standing by a corner with a smile on their lips, happy that there time was about to come.

Alice: Now, Kitty, let's consider who it was that dreamed it all

It was just another day, the kind of days we come across often but can still recall very seldom. The sun had begun its daily struggle of traversing the muggy cloud filled skies, only to get time and again eclipsed by the very clouds it was so hoping to avoid. 

Sweat was making its slow but sure journey to percolate and form a dark patch on the back; while twisting inside my clothes to escape the  sticky wetness; in a blink of an eye, I found myself  lost in the byzantine memory lanes of dreams.

A stranger in an unforgiving, sweltering, sun beaten town; walking down the anonymous stone cobbled pathways . His skin long turned the color of mud, baked & etched layer on layer on his face, the stranger looked tired and haggled; only the vitality of his eyes betrayed the exuberance of his spirit trapped in an exhausted, beaten and emaciated body.

A kind heart gave the weary traveler some water; ' and what makes you wander so?' he asked.

The stranger, glass eyes fixed on a faraway horizon, replied in only half a whisper

a something that hides sometimes in my eyes,

a something that I can only see from the corner of my eyes,

a something that runs and hides each time  it's seeked,

a something that makes me dream all night long,

a something I have never known,

a something that tantalizes me onto an endless quest,

a something abstruse, taciturn and unwilling to reveal,

unbeknownst to self I chase, 

a fading yet clear, distant yet near,

a chimera maybe or maybe a mirage,

destination unknown and thirst unquenched,

like a piper's mouse I chase, deep shadow's of my soul

conjurer

And I pick up a pen, on reflex, grab a sheet and there we go. Incredulous, as the sheer stupidity returns. Second to none in building chimera's for my own consumption, I can build an image of utter nonchalance, of sheer bravado, of disappointment, of dejected solitude, of exhilarating joy, of magical love and in a matter of minutes or sometimes hours I start mirroring the chimera and living in it.

across the white flake vapors of the clouds

a weightless soul was floating

agape wide eyed at the bright sunlight

the clear blue skies melting

a little child encumbered forever in a grown man's cloak

lost in a mist

through the misty clouds across the hill

someone called me by my name

wandering through the moist green grass

someone tugged me on to an unknown far

cold hands tucked and collar raised

I walk on lost through the white walls

did someone call me by my name?

brushing past the dripping wet branches 

someone tapped me on the shoulder

turning around in the cold damp breeze

a dew drop shower all over me

dint someone call me by my name?

there is a certain magic in my love

for the hill and the rolling woods

for slumber filled days spent by a brook

for the pleasures of the evanescent sun

in the whistling melodies of the winds

there is a certain magic in my love

for long lost days under open skies

for endless strolls on a mountain high

for staring endless

in my transient glittering sky of dreams

or did someone call me by my name?

sun drenched springs

I dont want to know another word about life
and I dont want to know another word about love

I dont need to see another one of the crazed
to know that life is'nt fair

I am following the trails of my heart
tracking the baby steps in the moist green grass

I dont need another sign board to heaven
to reach the resting lands of soul

I am no longer calling angels on their cell
and I dont need no waiting anymore

I am set out on journeys again
and I need no destinations at the end

I dumped prudence at a curb and jumped the signal of penance
I am chasing horizons with abundant elan

I got no use for restive's, rebel's or inflated bubble head's
I am searching lost simpletons in their carefree worlds

I dont need no measures for the miles gone by
and I need no Frost and his miles to go

I dont need full stops to signal the breaks
my tales have begun and shall never end

I am drowning deep in eternal sun drenched springs
with a subtle ghost smile on my lips

mind-ing innanity

Things inconsequential to our existence seem to occupy more of our time and efforts, than the ones that matter. For example, it is strange how sitting every day in front of a laptop to create documents and presentations, speaking to strangers, listening to annoying bosses and doing myriad small activties running from one desk to another; could by any strech of imagination help you attain nirvana.

I woke up one morning to find a strange apparition, a head of a long horned deer staring me right in the eye. As I slapped the bastard for having tried to scare me with such antics and threw it out of the window; the thought as to how when and why was the said bastard was even there in my room, that fine morning, never occured to me. Though given the myriad complexities, such as, taking a cab from its forest, figuring out where I lived and then entering through glass panes & iron grills and after all that hard work just sitting staring at a sleeping man; should have ideally got me thinking. But then I stopped living in an ideally a while back.

There is a certain amount of incredulity I must attach to my brains capability of not reacting to insanity.Though it never misses a chance to react insanely to innanities, a case in point is the sudden motor impulse of shouting vulgarities, sitting inside a windows all rolled up car, when a motorist behind me started visualizing the horn of his vehicle as the boob of his keep. While I abused the vulgar buffoon to my heart's content my mind never even gave a blip of recognition of that utter insanity. It failed to reason that how can you stop someone, doing the dreary job of driving, from the sudden lasivious urge to hump anatomical areas, based on one's pre-delictions, and taking it out on the hapless horn? Guess now we know where 'horny' came from, but that ofcourse is neither here nor there; so even as insanities go unnoticed & unchecked, my mind neverthless seems to mind every other small digression of thoughts, dreams or actions I seem to take. Like why did I press a door bell with my left forefinger and not the right.  While I routinely jostle with this strange choice of my mind in terms of things to flag and not to flag; I wonder if this perpetual wrestling is a localized one human phenomenon or a more dispersed multiple people disorder.

I often say (mostly to myself) that the beauty of a mind lies in its ability to interpret the innane, but by that yardstick too I myself seem to flounder; since I can hardly interpret or subscribe any background to this act of writing right now. May be its the five hour sleep I could manage last night, may be in the diffused sleepy vision from my eyes, I am seeing a strangley chimeric though true feature of my mind or may be it is another innanity my mind is focusing on.

languid nights and an empty mind

these starry eyes in the pitch black nights

soul's ambrosia in these winds

oh how i glide on its wings

these dusty roads on the way to my heart

forever flowing these dreams like streams

sprout again from these stubs, hopes with the cholorphyl greens

oh how i desire the deep unknown seas

mystic nights and the foggy heart

these floating whites inside the soul

verdant valleys of love hidden under the scorching sun

again i fall, there are cracks in the heaven's floor

hurtling down to the muddy browns, deep azure's i leave you behind