Every sad story I read takes something away from me. Leaving me lighter. Ironic it might sound but it is true. Every sad story teaches me something. What not to do, and how not to be. Why not to pursue. Increasingly am beginning to see that there are no pursuits. All pursuits are imaginary.

8.2.14

When you look, you look. But what do you look?

-------

If I can be happy with nothing. I would rather be happy with nothing.

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Life stares from every corner

at the places I've lived so far

and more infinitely at all places I've never lived.

7.2.14

What?

What would you want when you want nothing?

Sleep can only be a refuge from life or is it life a refuge from sleep?

What does it matter?

Summer nights or winter nights, what difference; when you are always living in autumn?

7.2.14

If we have never seen movement. Then, when we see movement, it affects us. We notice.

7.2.14

Apple tree

There is an apple tree in the middle of the road I am walking

And there is an apple tree in the deepest chambers of my heart.

They are no different from each other.

They whither and change according to 

the weather and other circumstances.

This is my secret and this is no secret.

A mask lay on the table of my existence. I wear it every time I venture out, it can change to a certain extent at different times and with different people. But the essence, however remains the same. 

I will never get tired of the mask. But one day the mask will get tired of me. 

TV is on

The boys were playing in the street. The little girl next door was speaking to her mother. The tv was running inside. Somebody last night was telling that he was dying inside everyday. I wonder how people can say things like that. Do they know what death is? It seems to me that it's become a sort of romantic notion that people use and take for granted.

When I was little, I was sad, I used to be sad for no reason. Especially when I was in school. Was it because I found the idea of being in school depressing? I can't say for sure. May be not. 

But all I could remember was, I used to gaze at the lines of casuarina trees through the window of the classroom across the empty pond, and I don't remember having anything particular in my mind. 

I can only rely on my memories, but memories can act in a strange manner; I agree. But what can one write about but from ones memory or if not; using ones imagination -that once again springs from memory. But memories age, that's the problem. My recent memory is more reliable than my old memory. But certain old memories are more vivid than certain recent ones.

The ball came flying inside the gate. I went and threw it back to them. They went away. The tv is still running, more louder. I am going to go out.

Should you choose 

to look beyond the sky.

Leave them,

All those people

who took the first thing

that came by

And now, look back

Just a little time

to turn away.

If you are willing, 

then you already know.

A little child,

under a tree

is building her 

little house in the sand.

You know what I mean.

9.02.14

Do I sing?

Do I see?

What's there?

and what is left?

Now tell me

when my work is over

and my sun has gone down

Should I go?

Or should I stay?

Life is not easy

Only because I'm still trying.

9.feb.14

'So many lives you could've lived. Are you sad?'

01.01.2014

28.jan.14

We, human beings, have acquired and perfected the tendency to justify and rationalise anything we do; however terrible it is and against our own values and ideas of being just.

What is love to such a creature? It's just another mere excuse.

23.jan.14

Trees of autumn

Your falling leaves

fly in the moist air

to fall down and weep

tears of joy.

When it's done

Clapping of hands. The little faces. The song, finally. Everything seems to be okay. Eyes of the wind finds us beneath the veil of silence. Someday, someday. I am tired now, and again, and again. The shadow watches. The light isn't any different, the light is the shadow and the shadow the light.

Leaves of the fall on the streets. I walk on the tree. The violin is strange when it's not playing. But who will play the violin when nobody is around. The October breeze comes and goes finally finding the sea.

The stars are coming down for the night but someone, somebody, always manages to steal them on their way. I lie on my back staring at the empty sky.

Monday morning and Saturday evenings, they don't mean anything different. A window lets in the breeze. Falling days. A night is a night.

1.12.13

However

Everything changes, ever.

Everything transforms.

Nothing remains the same,

yet everything remains the same.

To look beyond the binaries, 

to look beyond the obvious.

Everything makes sense.

And life moves on.

What ever it is, how ever life

turns out.

Happy or ecstatic,

cruel or sad.

Silence remains.