Wisps of white

I drew a line in the thin damp air with nothing but a finger;  and as I drew,the dust it shimmered in the golden sparkling rays of sun. On those light ways of dust, I drew numerous in the sky, saw so many little dreams floating by; waving and smiling, glittering and shining, all dressed up for an evening out. Trying to hold them, wanting just one to sit here on my palm; slipping they keep, right through my fingers like the rain. How I wish there was a dream,that I could clasp in my palm and hold it close against my heart;oh how I wish there was a dream, of which I knew it would never deceive.

It ain't that

Turning around the bend, in search of the lost little something, he could no longer remember, the reason for setting out. Was it the wasted lucidity of an average mind, trying to feel its way through the dense fogs all around or was there this another bend in the road. For they all seemed the same now, these bends, the ability to appreciate any obviously differentiating views, across  the innumerable bends encountered in this long winding journey, was long lost, like many other of his eccentricities.

Not knowing, and knowingly not knowing, are all subtle arts you learn on such twisting and turning roads, navigating the obviously endless journey pretending to be looking for destinations.

As he drank handfuls of water from the stream, water as if trying to get away from him quickly; greedily splashing and swooping, pretending as if, the thirst inside did need any quenching.
A knowing smile, playing on the corner of his lips, as his mind tried, for the umpteenth time, to pretend it knew not what was in that heart.

These small wild flowers and those green young leaves, those rays of sun shimmering like diamond pebbles on the drenched world all around, wouldn't any journey find its destination at a place like this? he pretended to ponder. Another something turns evanescent before it neared, stony eyed he watched, and then suddenly pretended to be distracted by the itch, in his many days old stubble.

Walking long and lonesome, weed ridden paths in the midst of waltzing pines, shivering from the breeze in the luke warm sun, knowing all along, but pretending, may be, turning around the coming bend will lead to the something long seek'd? for he reasoned, every journey must have a reason, why would a sane man wander so else?
Knowing, but pretending, not to see, the wanderlust twinkling, in the browns of his betraying eyes, staring and mocking , as he waded through another rolling stream, searching for those rounded stones that tumble along the river bed.

Turning again ah another bend, on the seldom trodden, forgotten and winding little road, yet pretending as if  in search of a lost little something, knowing well, he could no longer remember the reason for setting out.

This heart, that mind,
eyes and mirage of a destination,
a little hungry and a little too full,
a little lost and somewhat knowing,
a little believing and a little agnostic,
a little eager and a little scared,
a little enamored and a little unsure,
I stare at the door in the middle of the forest,
trying to guess if an exit or an entrance,
and find myself rooting for an entrance.

Finally

One step at a time, the old man said, but that will take an eternity to climb, the young man said. And so they stared into each others eyes, one full of defiance, secure in the infallibility of self, the other wizened, mildly amused but poignant at the callousness of youth.

And so this story began, only to repeat itself, over and over, and over again, till with time both their eyes they reflected exasperation. The young man's stemming from an endless inability to reach the next plus one and the old man's at other's reluctance to give up and take it one at a time.

Days lost themselves in the crowds of weeks and the weeks they lost themselves in the teaming crowds of the years. The sun would shine bored through its days and the moon would spread an indifferent silver in its nights, the wind it wouldn't flutter a single leave and the sullen trees they drooped all the way to the ground. But the duel of youth and age, raged endless, the youth realizing, every now and then, that the youth was passing and the age realizing, long before I aged, I was youth.

And so this battle, it rages, though sometimes I see the truth, youth and age, the twain is  irreversibly heading to meet the another.

Just a flag post for one step at a time, gonna make it two the next time around (ah the eternal youth)!

so long, so little

Worn out thin sling, of a dusty old bag,
around the shoulder of the weather beaten weary man,
a traveler, a seeker, a vagabond maybe

youth, all dusted over, by the quiet falling of his passing years;

he remembered how he kept all memories sweet & sour like pebbles in its deep creases;

as he walked down, on the long winding road;

it had read 'life' and 'one way' on that street sign where this journey began,
and what a long one way did it turn out,
sometimes dusty, sometimes green,
somedays cloudy, somedays bright
somedays lonely and nights long
sometimes lost and many times sure;

and the pebbles they piled,
the bag got heavy with every mile
and he felt more wise with every added ounce;

'I must catch up on my memory treasure, need to feel some pride on my journey yet' he thought
drowsy fingers dug deep into the dusty worn bag,

digging for treasures unknown in its creases,
like an expectant child reaching into a may be not empty cookie jar;

'ah what will I find in the sweet memory bag?'

nothing! alas its only empty fingers that came back
why he exclaimed!, and before the question could leave his parched lips,
a knowing smile played on those very lips,
for sometimes there are answers we know, which do not reveal  themselves until the right question is asked.

the memory bag is empty, cause though we feel, we keep them memories like pebbles,
to be possessed forever, a general's epaulette as if,  shimmering with medals,
but all we have and all we carry is only their weight.