Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts

Saturday, April 25, 2015

Cosmic Quandries


Roaming in the ancient seas , George the trylobite looks up at the heavenly night sky and ponders about the magnificent cosmos.

What would it feel like to fly into that great vast void above. Would I be able to swim through those beautiful structures. How far will I have to go do you fathom ?I wonder if anyone else is thinking about all this. I wish I could ask them. I wish I could know. What a waste it would be, to not look up and wonder and not try to know.

And just like that,the thought vanishes from his mind. And he swims onward.


photo courtesy : Hubble Space Telescope

Monday, March 2, 2015

For What it's Worth

Dear Comrade,

Our greatest asset is our integrity. Honest integrity armed with conviction. We do not fall victim to the trappings of today , nor are we confined by faith in some preordained destiny.  We are not enticed by wealth or fame nor are we undone by false laurels or patronising equivocation. We  refuse to be dictated to.And we will not give in to the machinery grinding at our heels.

We seek the truth. Truth in all that we feel and all that we do.We sample meaning from our experience, enriched by the lives of those with and before us, filtered through our conscious choices. It is often much like plotting your course through a vast ocean of emptiness. For when we are battling the great waves and the storms and the sharks and the sickness, purpose seems all but a mirage. But in our hearts, we know, that our compasses would always face north. And  when in doubt, we must tell ourselves that we are mariners. Men and women born from this very emptiness.

Voyagers and explorers. Men who refused to kneel when the world refused to budge.


Wednesday, November 5, 2014

A Revenge Story

Light eyed peasant boy, fell by a she-wolf, lay bleeding in the desert sun.
"Water", he whispered into the heat.
A shadow loomed over him.
He heard the chime of a canister.
A few cool drops trickled onto his lips and dribbled over, moistening his parched mouth.
He felt an understanding hand observe the torn flesh.
"Who are you?",he asked feebly.
"Nobody."
"Why.."
"I'll let it bleed.", the stranger cut the boy short.
"No ! please.."
The shadow took away the water from him.
Then whispered into his ear,"I'll let it bleed so that the angst breeds on your open wounds;
 It will fester in your being, colouring your purpose, infesting your resolve.When venom runs in your veins, you will do anything to stay alive."

"Vengeance", he whispered, "will be your ticket out of this world."

Friday, October 17, 2014

In the Melee of our Existence


Drink deep the red of your soul,
And revel in its lusty waves;
Rise up and soak in the radiance of your being,
And breath in the air of your freedom.

Tear down your vain facades,
And take on those naked blows;
Bite into those censoring chains,
And rage against their shadowy grip.

Shatter till you find it in you,
To stand up once again;
To breathe in those precious petals of sorrow,
Doused thick in resentment,
And watch it float away,whithering,
Like scars from a forgotten melee.

Let your song beat to your heart's rhythm;
Let your feet feel the pulse of your earth;
Let it resound, even when you hold down your quiver;
Let it echo, even in the wake of your silence.

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Waiting for Daybreak

   Waiting for Daybreak

Sometimes the paint brush runs dry.
And the art stops beating.
Thoughtless sepia canvases lie awake;
Like songs that died on your tongue.

Old paintings are like old friends whom you run into after many years
They just look, smell and taste different.
You never quite know what to do with them.

So I gave her a wash in aquamarine and a breath of the sea,
Laced her up with a simple kiss, and placed her on my wall
And she slapped me back to life.