Colossal

I hear not the whisper, my memory making me wince,
Of those few words, moments long lost in wilderness.

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Straight, cloudy, road and sky,

I tear my heaven to know if it’s you.

Your shine, paused with ample happiness,

I fear my eye, fate if I come see you.

 

I paint back from past, things, chats,

New like a pinch of fairy on my cheeks.

I fly out of my mind, towards you,

Off where you begin, the world ends.

 

I hear not the whisper, my memory making me wince,

Of those few words, moments long lost in wilderness.

I wish not to bring it back, but bear fruit for today,

Whose seeds time sown years before this today.

 

I’m now out in open, dark land,

Easy it seems, looking at sunlight, you.

Overfilling my pain, your happiness,

Your hopping body and motionless time.

 

Seeing you if I can make it possible,

I’ll get wind of this crawler, me.

I lift my spirits not in pray, but in convention,

I’ll look for me and then I look for you.

An Evening Tryst With a Stranger

I had promised this disguised soul I won’t forget that discussion last evening. I’m here to get unapproved of me being a forgetful person, again!

I won’t much dive into the details into what made me talk to a stranger in a country where people are already in abundance but no one actually to share to, I will not be interpreting the event in any way possible. I would term that “person” as “she” for now.

So, last evening it was sun bidding adieu as it usually does, and it was certainly a time for recreation. For a deep sleeper like me, Internet is always an eye opener. So, Internet! There’s a website that offers login without identifying yourself and you could share with strangers around the world without getting known. Cool! So, my laptop was assigned to get this job done.

She was the first one to begin with a casual Hi! I replied with an ignorant Heya, while sliding my thumb along the social media on my phone on the other hand. To my utter surprise, she asked, ” Have you ever been in true love?” I decided to put an end to this convo. But something stopped me. It was to no obligation that I’ve to reply to that. But I did, in positive annotation.

I would easily make out that she was so keen to know with her number of question marks on several following questions. I answered them as adequately and carefully as possible. A evening feast of replies, better given than taken! At one or the other take she could easily make out that I was lying. Lying she declared was unnecessary. Her “maybes” and “maybe nots” were enough to make me realise she won’t open herself but make me spit my words out as easily as I was already spitting.

When asked about her age, she replied, “Anybody between 10 years and 80 years, you can put me wherever you want to be.” Pretty unconventional, for me at least! Her purpose to inquire me was uncertain and all I could I understand was she wanted to solve some problem of her and that she wanted to know what “boys of my age feel about the most divine thing in the whole world, love”.

Out of her dominance in the conversation she instructed me to love unconditionally and accusing me of pondering more than I should. A message has been delivered and took a note of it.

She had bet I won’t forget this conversation but I admit I got a dreamy sleep afterwards. It’s a waste of time. But lesson learnt. What I had I actually got to do, anyway?

Cyclewala (The Cyclist)-II

“Two days off the shore and the world forgets you are the sailor!”. 

Mysticism never ends neither did his stamina. His paddling seemed consistent as the falling evening. His was much of a lad when it comes to imagination and through the wide array of grey clouds, he could leave his eyes wondering for a better bright tomorrow. People had enough of walks, he thought, while he could see them sweating a brow leaving towards their homes in ample distances. But he was creating his own distance, his own story, his own journey and enjoying every speck of moment. 

“There’s nothing better than stroking your mind while you stutter to break the bones. Because you don’t need to!”, his mighty thought knew no bound. All of his days has he spent in exploring the unknown, leading to places he’s never been to and living a dream of his native city. 

The streetlight struck yellow shadow on the purlieu wall. It was time to get back home. 

People seemed overwhelmed with the chaos in the evening. Smiling, sweating faces were abuntant and people from all walks of life shared their presence at the coincidental townhall. His being was one of them and he had a sanguine disposition for reaching home before the supper. It was a festival of some sort tomorrow but the celebration were already evidential terming it only as a silence before the storm. The thunderstorm is to come tomorrow. 

The only lead was to ride the wheels on the alternate route. It was thin and shanty, smelly and rocky. But he was ready for it. So, he glanced towards his right, waiting for the chain of vehicles to tumble and space out like a hypersonic shuttle. 

While the ultimate night had lend him an ultimate cycling, he couldn’t just but smile and thank for everything he had thought and came true. Little dreams,he talks about, are meant to be lived and admired. Bigger dreams are a fable, which fictional characters seems to live, and those who don’t believe, don’t realise the story behind everything. To the unconscious and ignoring minds, his heart could only wish farewell from his life but he was worried if all leave, what will he do? What will he have to offer to the squeezing emotional connection with squeezing morale of life? Nothing but true affection…

While he was wailing on such thoughts, he saw a spooky rock in the midst of the street. He couldn’t brake. The next moment he saw himself lying on the ample rocks on the street with his bicycle chain sounding an awkward rib. What he had done? How could this happen? Did that little rock had so much of strength to put him off his track? Why didn’t the rock got disposed but his belief did? 

He had fallen towards his left. The handle of the bicycle seemed a little worn out. He had a bit of injury on his arm. He got up shrinking the dust on his clothes to none. He started paddling waiting to get back home this time at the earliest. 

All of the ride he was forced to revisit in his mind. He was fine all the time imagining people, admiring their beauty, escaping the challenges, blaming the chaotic diaspora during the festivities, and cycling all the way by himself in a rather recreational mind setup. All did this happened, when he lamented what did he had, and or what he was about to get, he thought. 

And with the chaos of thoughts, he got back home. And no one cared. 

To be continued…

Cyclewala ( The Cyclist ) – I

What’s up for me?” 

 This brings the biggest confusion in ones life. And with the onus of leading this conversation, he decided to paddle and talk throughout the corners of the city he once embraced.

It wasn’t much of a dusk when the sun seemed weighing down and all he conversed with himself was nothing. He probably found the city exploration much tempting than having a boring exchange of blames with himself. He grasped a sight of girls shimmering with emeralds on their neck, kneeling on the temples doors praying to God for everything they had, escapingly shuttering their eyes to excuse themselves for a while and expectably getting themselves showered with more love, more beauty and more happiness.  

” Go home, you! “, he grasped to himself sensing greed in the hearts of those ladies. And then he sought himself a question which made him think his sight even once. ” What’s up for me? If these Yankees have immense greed, what’s up with me? I too have greed and maybe that’s how life is. Many people would long for having a bicycle like mine’s or maybe good health. It is not bad at all! “. 

He had immense observative capability and more of it, he had the chance to interpret his observance in the course of life. Many a times he would just explore the city he thrived in, coming back home being the same man he was when he first paddled. Cycling was an exercise, not a psychological therapy, he coined. But this time he giggled as he was challenged by life to interpret her meaning. 

“Many a times we wander searching for things that don’t exist. We paddle because we want to reach somewhere. That somewhere is sometimes nowhere. But that is not a problem. The problem is when a dive into nothing, feel depressed and in the quest of accumulating nothingness, we lose everything we had. The trust is broken, the chain is broken and the lust of reaching somewhere breaks just as the bicycle goes straight into a gutter. In the course of finding a new life and openly declaring war with ourselves, we lead to dead end…”, an excessively loud horn intrupped his paddling and he banked to the favourable side of the road. 

” Phew, that was close!”, he had the glance of a large 18-tier truck chasing the bicycle’s carrier as he was riding right in the middle of road. 

The wobble in his mind was teasinlgy uncommon to him. He never much cared if he was to lose something or to hope for better, or to feel disgraced or expect from nothing he seemed to have. He was far away from his time for people of his age were on their early professions. He was but searching for something else..

To be continued…

A Story from the Storyland

For once there was no fictional land but everyone had a say. Everybody had a voice to wander in each other’s ears and believe as if they were living a life. More fiction, more plurality and more of incidents to be overlooked.

And in these circumstances breath a voice wanderer disguised as human seeking shelter like a shoot in the forests of pine trees. His motive was nothing but to survive in the shadows of life and keep on accepting and mourning over nothing.

His story was none successful, not pleasing anybody around, but he never accepted that nobody accepted him and that mistake he kept on committing. He had nobody but his shadow to share his voice and even in the eyes of beggars, he was a dirt scavenger.

Until one fine morning he denied his motive, he decided to rest and take a stroll. His decision worked magic for he was allowed to lay disguised for immortality. He was quite thereafter, quieter than silence and silent than the silence in the townhall during midnights. He was more of nothing than nothing he was before. His story of being Dumber than voiceless nothing had brought him his best silence he ever wanted and his want went nowhere farther this very time. This unsung hero in his voiceless whisper wept for being the most lonely person in the world being in the world but being notch higher in being nothing.
And what followed next was no surprise. It was misery out of everything, with his nothingness creating mist all over the place.
He was more than nothing for his life now, an adventure he thought in his mystery, for his story is untold and unsung by people of voice wanderers. Still out of the blue they prosper but never once in the blue moon they come out of where they are, hearing nothing, believing nothing and surviving for nothing.
And so the storyland goes barren…

Being Foolish

For all people searching the meaning of life…

Who do we say is foolish?

 

I see the foolishness all around.

That’s my foolishness for bearing all the foolishness that this world have.

Now, I be the foolish; to not label myself foolish or my family members or my peers .

My belief that I rub everything above and never let the world know what really a foolish is; is foolish.

Or my posture or my behavior or my intention or only myself being just,foolish.

 

At any point of time, some sort of alien intelligence is surely due to over ride your abilities. Before a strong competitor, you surely going to lose. And at the end, nothing is going to matter.

What’s this ‘alien intelligence’, who’s this ‘strong competitor’ and what’s exactly the’ end’?

The answer no one knows the answer to, the lust that no one can ever fulfill and the future that any other distinction cannot hold, is the answer. We are hesitant to recognize, realize and prove, failing to acknowledge, but curious to know. We hold our hands together, trace our faces, and walk by our sides, but still…

 

Still we find our destinations and still we prefer going back. We label ourselves travelers, who finds his destinations and is equally determined to get back where he started, maybe to just let the world know, where he started. And where he started is where the world can start. Not just follow the footsteps but just prefer finding a little new way, a sweet other fruit to taste.

 

Label me foolish for letting you stroll where no one else does.

 

James Clear says,” Motivation is overvalued. Environment often matters more.”

I believe he’s right. Sorry for being foolish, believing in what others has to say. Or not others but somebody. Or somebody with something special.

 

Foolish is being identified. Being known.Being yourself.

The answer that I somehow, came to know.

And felt to foolish to spread…

 

The Noise in The Backyard

I have been hearing this for quite awhile.

I have been ignorant to disregard it for an opportunity to listen.

 

But it had a meaning, inside that monotonous sound waves reaching my ear, it had a regularity and a clarity.

 

Let me just provide some essentials of this noise:

  1. It was coming from my backyard. This means i had put my back on it at all times.
  2. It was kinda repetitive. I can seamlessly figure the similarity between those waves at some time intervals.
  3. As it was a noise, it was really hard to listen. It kept stinging my ear and eventually my brain and the whole body.
  4. The source of this noise was initially unknown. Even though it was in my backyard, after raiding the location, I wasn’t really able to the origin of it.
  5. It wasn’t stopping alike incessant rains in the monsoons. You can just pray but it won’t stop. It won’t stop even you have ripped off all the trees in about 100 kms radius.
  6. You would literally realise the beginning and the end of the noise just like fade effects in music.
  7. It was trying to say something…

 

I had put my brains into it.

Thought I had lost immensely.

The thought was absolutely authentic until… I listened something else.

Like, something more important.

Something that I had experienced before but in, ignorance.

 

Leo Tolstoy in his book,“The Confessions”  wrote,” My question…. was the simplest question, lying in every soul of every man from the foolish child to the wiser elder: it was a question without an answer to which one cannot live, as I had found by experience. It was :” What will come of what I am doing today or shall do tomorrow? What will come of my whole life?” Differently expressed, the question is:”Why should I live, why wish for anything, or do anything?” It can also be expressed thus: “Is there any meaning of life that inevitable dead awaiting me does not destroy?”

 

I had listened to the similar voice from my inside this time, clearly.

 

As I had got more engrossed into the subject, and eventually, the thought process had turned much more serious and demanding.

It took me days, weeks ,months and checkpoint of a year transition to interpret the signals. I still don’t believe whats been going on for quite awhile.

 

I tried conversing with the people in my circle to what it really could mean. Maybe, they could really help me out. Maybe they had experienced it before. Maybe, in their vicinities or maybe someone else could have expressed their views concerning the similar topic.

I sounded awful and awful I am sounding right now.

 

Let me just provide you some essentials of this voice:

  1. I knew the origin of the sound.
  2. I kinda recognise the events and ideas responsible for such origin.
  3. It also reverberates sometimes like a noise that I could barely interpret.
  4. The intervals it may come is pretty unclear.
  5. I may ignite them at times but cannot believe its happening.
  6. I maybe hesitate to offer myself a respite from the noise.
  7. It was trying to say something…

 

I had put my brains into it.

Distinctively, I had lost all hopes to interpret these signals.

The traffic was so high, I could barely walk along the sidewall.

I had hints, I gathered opinions just from myself, to where do these things lead to.

Leo Tolstoy in his book,“The Confessions”  wrote,”One kind of knowledge did not reply to life’s question, the other kind replied directly confirming my despair, indicating not that the result at which I had arrived was the fruit of error or of a diseased state of my mind, but on the contrary that I had thought correctly, and that my thoughts coincided with the conclusions of the most powerful of human minds.”

 

I had got a slightest hint of my answer. But it was pending to be really understood. For if you go for straight opinion from an another human erred mind, it was a sin to commit that the same thing is happening with me which with God’s supreme decisiveness cannot happen. I wonder…

 

Nobody knew where I had arrived. My peers didn’t had a slightest hint and didn’t slightly I cared or bothered. But somehow I wanted them to have a realisation. I know it was all going to be vain or it was just better to be obscured. Maybe I wasn’t there enough?

 

All of the process wasn’t easy to render. It had taken much of my time and my valuables. And I still can’t figure out what was it upto, what is it motive, where it is leading to, when is this going to end, what more of myself is it going to take, or simply why?

I have not been backed off by myself during this tenure. I have going through jealously, competition or all simple facts of life that exist.

 

Leo Tolstoy in his book,“The Confessions”  wrote,” Why does everything exist that exist, and why do I exist?” “Because it exists.”

 

This was a gamble I had made. Severely out of the strategy series of projections, possibly day dreaming of sorts. It had been so much successful in the hindering the situation of my mind. But it tried giving me real implications of existence and space in life. Its seldom tactfully jackpot to ask moronic questions where everybody exclaims how wondrous the demand is.

 

It was deliberately tailored scene before my eyes at all times. Like a rhythm that comprises of ups and downs and one-ups and two-downs. There was a hurry to transit every situation. Crisply  edited and graded movie of a sort.

 

Leo Tolstoy in his book,“The Confessions”  wrote,” I understood that if I wish to understand life and its meaning, I must not live the life of  a parasite, but must live a real life, and taking the meaning given to live by real humanity and merging myself in that life – verify it.” 

 

I was stunned.

Stupefied, petrified like The Noble Laureate, John Nash told to his wife in the movie, A Beautiful Mind.