Almond eyes

Almond eyes….
Ocean deep,….
Deserted from tenderness….
Lost in human wilderness…
Hiding half way behind the great war torn wall…
His mother…
Is not to be seen around….
His father…
Has long since been gone…
Hasn’t returned…
Since last Christmas eve…
Where’s father..?
He’s wondered …
Amidst the debris of millions of homes broken….
Of families in millions… lost and forgotten…
He wonders if he is the only one…
Or is it only him and the neighbor??
In the worn torn heart of his country….
His dream world lays shattered…
His eyes search through those men in arms…
They wonder through the broken streets where once he played…
His innocence takes its final breath….
It cannot sustain itself any longer…
Deep inside his patience is dyeing…
His faith is crying…
His hopes are dismal…
Will father ever come back??
Or is it the end now….?
For the first time in life….
He has just experienced pain…
For the first time …
His little heart seems to be breaking ….
For the first time now…
His fairytale world is drowning…
Reality stares in the face…
So blankly….it could break those bullets into half.
When he should have been searching for things far of late….
He wonders…
of life and death…
Of guns and bullets…
for the first time now…
He has just experienced loss…
“There are no fairies or miracles?. Are there mamma??
If there were… father might have returned...”
No…he says so…
yet he still believes…
He still prays…
Every day
Every morning
Every night
Underneath the plank of his little bed…
And he still gives that broken smile...
That smile that talks of hope…
Once in a while…
For long now…
he has not known the meaning of the word… ‘jihad’…
he knows now…. Even before he could read….
His father would whisper each day…
Those eternal prayers…
of life and death…
Of love and hate…
Of peace and animosity…
What was father’s fault then?
Why did he go away?
Maybe he might never know….
why father never returned….
what happened on a fateful Christmas eve…
that intriguing mystery unveiled….
He might wonder which path to tread then…
A path father rarely encouraged…
A path he never preached…
A chapter unwritten ….in the holy ‘Koran’
For reasons unheard...
Undiminished…and uninterrupted
Reasons full of hate…
reasons full of revenge…
born to avenge…
To extinguish the fire of rage…
That burnt alive the deer of life…..
That wasted away…
those flowers of childhood innocence….
That sinking heart that forgot how to dream…
And those lips that forgot…how to tremble. how to smile.
Now…
Those eyes retain their shameless charm. Their magical passions…
Betraying all good. all evil. All hate.
To embark on to the journey…
That never held any good…
For maybe.
That might just be the answer…
To why father..
had never returned……….

The end

- aansh

no uttered words

-- No uttered words the poet speaks,
No skies of golden hue,
No tales of unrequited love,
They were lost when I lost you.

No words to caress her lover's heart,
And gone the dreams she swore they'd live,
But alone within the poet dwells,
No uttered words... none left to give.

No music swells within her soul,
Just silence surrounds her heart,
And the solitude engulfs her world,
When the poet and love depart.

And lost the beauty she once could see,
And the glory she saw each day,
Now the poet pens her last farewell,
No more love can she convey.

But what's the poet's soul to do?
To release the love she feels,
For she'll surely die and wither,
If that love she now conceals.

she must hide the hurt and heartache,
Just smile to friends and say,
I'm fine... love doesn't matter,
And deceive them all that way.

For a different face she'll show them,
To barricade her pain,
To hide her shattered spirit,
From the love she ne'er attained.

But the pain within shall kill her,
Not soon but through the years,
For the poet knows her anguish,
When alone she sheds her tears.

And at night when dreams come calling,
With his voice, his smile... his eyes,
A single tear upon her cheek,
Hides the pain her heart belies.

For she loved his soul completely,
Was consumed by beauty's bliss,
Had shared his inner thoughts,
But never shared his kiss.

And when death comes to the poet,
And to heaven her soul ascends,
she'll smile before her beauty,
For eternity never ends.

So will the poet regret the life,
Which stole away the years,
No she'll simply recall the love,
she felt in all her tears.

And when her love has joined her,
And they meet in heaven's bliss,
Their regrets will quickly perish,
As they kiss their first sweet kiss.

And so the words will quickly flow again,
From my thoughts, to hand... to book,
I'll not write of God or Heaven,
When upon your face I look.

So the poet's again a poet,
For the words were always there,
I just didn't see much beauty,
When your love I couldn't share.

So their souls will find the love at last,
That in life they could not seek,
And the poet soon finds the words in you...
The words... she could not speak..


aansh

CREATIVE WRITTING - FROM THE HEART

Leaves of trees once sparkling in the spring…
Now once broken shall never be the same again….
In their place shall bloom a new life….
And the old shall be but a part of oblivion rest…
Like the past that never existed to ever make a beginning….

I spent a considerable part of my life in school... learning, studying and growing under the influence of a strict disciplinary system of a convent school… I’d always wondered about my true feeling for other people... My friends, family, teachers, relatives… had my feelings at that time ever been genuine in any sense? Or was it some sort of a formal declaration that I ought to as a rule display my special sincerity towards such persons?
Spending a time of my life that is known for strange droughts of crisis and confusion lead to an unready state of mind… I managed it by exhibiting my penchant for writing my thoughts in a secret diary. Well that’s what happens when your in a phase of your life where nothing really seems to have a real impact on you and your not really sure about any of your actions either…..and simple reason being that you tend to consider yourself too much of a higher being to be guided by others or to be taught anything new.. You feel you have something special and exceptional to offer to the world that is not known to anyone.
Well I maintained a secret diary and wrote... I’d say tried to write about my inner most feelings in a manner that would convey to the reader my true identity... actually it was rather a step towards self discovery and unforgiving camaraderie between the pen and the mind… sometimes I wrote well... Sometimes ... I wasn’t sure of what exactly I had written or what it was that made me write what I just wrote. It was nothing more than a step towards directing my aggression towards a pointless and emotionless object; preferably my diary. That would not react to the heated strokes of my fountain pen.
Soon I started writing more elaborately and profoundly... started reading more and somehow my vocabulary always seemed to have enough space to offer me an appropriate word. I never thought of myself as a terrific creative artist or a writer but when in the ninth grade my teacher noticed my talent that had grown into an exceptional case. I wrote and developed a much specified art of expressing the emotions in words without the use of complicated vocabulary. My first brush with recognition of my talent came when I wrote a simple essay on “my mother”. The story like essay comprised of various encounters that I had with my mother... One involving a serious accident on the road where I had been hit by a passing vehicle and my mother came to my rescue. Well it stated that it was such strange encounters accompanied by strange undesirable circumstances that lead to a journey of self discovery and of course discovery of each other for both of us. It’s in the light of such undesirable painful times I realized. That we come to discover the true nature of the person we have known for years. And so it seems that the painful uncomfortable elements of life are although undesirable but a much needed aspect of life that reflects light on the true nature of man. Its then that it comes to your knowledge. Who is your friend and who is your foe.

I am not the person in any case to judge such issues. It’s reflected in the subtle rules of formal greetings and informal warmth. One which you express to show something and one which you have no power over to ever be able to hide. The key to writing... and that too writing well I realized... Was to release your inhibitions. There has to be an inborn feeling of not being judged in order to maintain the flow of your emotions. There needs to be a love of expressing yourself without the desire for recognition. It has to be the ability to let yourself flow from within your deepest thoughts and to give your inhibited feelings the chance to exhibit themselves. Let go of the fear you harbor for those unkempt emotions that you have hidden for so long. It’s all about releasing your inhibitions….
... Now I realize the feeling of it… of once what I’d conveyed in a college poetry contest
I am unwritten…
I cannot read my mind...
Staring at the blank page...
Before you can open up the endless times…
Reaching for something in the distance…
So close… you can almost taste it..,.
Release your inhibition…
Feel the rain on your skin….
No one else can feel it for you,
Only you can let it in... .’
No one else...
No one else…
No one else can speak the words on your lips…
Put yourself in words unspoken…
Give your love with arms wide open…

The rest is unwritten...

Love is the essence… in my opinion the essence of true writing. Those who are not a part of this feeling are the ones who write with a feeling of selling their art... with a purpose. With a commercial purpose or a purpose of spreading their knowledge.
But the words, the art, the work that rules the hearts and minds of the people… are the words written from within the depths of the overflowing reservoirs of your emotion… and the links of the human heart. The essence of truth and expressiveness desire to overflow from those words. Words were not words if written from what the mind thought…. Only then can the reader relate to the true feelings expressed in those words which otherwise would be meaningless if the emotions were not incarnated in them. Only then can the reader feel the essence of the words long hidden within the realms of reality that he felt awkward to express. Such expressive writing shall herald an era of expressiveness and truth in matters of the heart…
And release the long socially restricted flights of the human heart and emotions that have been suppressed by the technocracies of science obsessed people. For the real and true aim of human emotions is not to be suppressed but to release themselves in forms long spread and unknown...spreading a universal message of understanding and relativity... And that’s what creative writing is all about….. It’s all about the heart... and never was about the mind.

So come … express yourself... release your inhibitions... and join the journey……….

A HELPING HAND

lying in bed, i realized with a shudder that it was monday morning. it looked as though only a moment ago it had been the last period at school on friday; but monday was already here. i hoped that an earthquake would reduce the school building to dust, but that good building - st.mary'school - had withstood many such similar prayers for over a hundred years now. at nine o'clock i wailed ' i have a headache'. my mother said, 'why dont you go to school in a local vehicle?" 'so that i may be completely dead at the other end?? have you any idea what it means to be jolted in those cars??' ' have you many important lessons today?" 'important! that geography teacher has been teaching the same lesson for over a year now. and we have arithmetic, which means for a whole period we are going to be beaten by the teacher.... important lessons!" and mother generously suggested that i might stay at home. at nine-thirty, when i ought to have been shouting in the school prayer hall, i was laying on the bench in mother's room. father asked "have you no school today?" "headache," i replied 'nonsense, dress up and go to school,' 'headache' 'loaf about less on sundays and you will be without a headache on a monday,' i knew how stubborn my father could be and changed my tactics ,'i cant go so late to the class now,'. ' i agree, but you will have to; it is your own fault. you should have asked me before deciding to stay away.' 'what will the teacher think if i go late?' 'tell him you had a headache and so are late.' 'he will beat me if i say so.' 'will he? let us see. what is his name?' 'samuel'. ' does he beat other students?' 'he is very violent, especially with boys and girls who come late. some days ago a boy was made to stay on his knees for the whole period in a corner of the class because he came late, and that after getting six cuts from the cane and having his ears twisted. i woud'nt like to go late to samuel's class.' 'if he is so violent, why not tell your headmaster about it?' ' they say that even the headmaster is afraid of him. he is such a violent man.". and then i gave a lurid account of samuels violence; how when he started canning he would not stop till he saw blood on the boy's hand, which he made the boy press to his forehead like a vermillion marking. i hoped that with this his father would be made to see that i could'nt go to my class late. but father's behaviour took an unexpected turn. he became excited. 'what do these swines mean by beating our children? they must be driven out of service. i will see....' the result was that he proposed to send me late to my class as a kind of challenge. he was also going to send a letter with me to the headmaster. no amount of protest from my side was of any avail: i had to go to school. by the time i was ready father had composed a long letter to the headmaster, put it in an envelop and sealed it. ' what have you written father?' i asked apprehensively. ' nothing for you. give it to your headmaster and go to your class.' ' have you written anything about our teacher samuel?' ' plenty of things about him. when your headmaster reads it he will probably dismiss samuel from the school and hand him over to the police.' 'what has he done father?' 'well there is a full acount of everything he has done. give it to your headmaster and go to class. you must bring an acknowledgement from him in the evening.' i went to school feeling that i was the worst perjurer on earth. my conscience bothered me; i was'nt at all sure if i had been accurate in my description of samuel. i could not decide how much of what i had said was imagined and how much of it was real. i stopped for a moment on the roadside to makeup my mind about samuel: he was not such a bad man after all. personally he was much more genial than the rest; often he cracked a joke or two centring around my inactions, and i took it as a mark of samuel's personal regard for me. but there was no doubt that he treated people badly..... his cane skinned people's hands. i cast my mind about for an instance of this. there was none within my knowledgee. years and years ago he was reputed to have skinned the knuckles of a boy in the first standard and made him smear the blood on his face. no one had actually seen it. but year after year the story persisted among the children...... my head was dizzy with confusion in regard to samuel's character - whther he was good or bad, whether he deserved the allegations in the letter or not.... i felt an impulse to run home and beg my father to take back the letter. but my father was an obstinate man. as i approached the white building i realized that father was perjuring himself and was ruining my teacher.probabaly the headmaster would dismiss samuel and then the police would chain him and put him in jail. for all this disgrace, humiliation and suffering who would be responsible? i shuddered. the more i thaught of samuel, the more i grieved for him - the dark face, his small red streaked eyes, his thin line of moustache, his unshaven cheek and chin, his yellow coat; everything filled me with sorrow. as i felt the bulge of the letter in my pocket, i felt like an executioner. for a moment i was angry with my father and wondered why i should not fling into the gutter the letter of a man so unreasonable. and stubborn. as i entered the school gate an idea occured to me, a sort of solution. i would'nt deliver the letter to the headmaster immediately, but at the end of the day - to that extent i would disobey my father and exercise my independence. there was nothing wrong in it, and father would not know it anyway. if the letter was given at the end of the day there was a chance that samuel might do something to justify the letter. i stood at the entrance to my class. samuel was teaching arithmetic. he looked at me for a moment. i stood hoping that samuel would attack me and tear my skin off and cane me. but samuel merely asked, ' are you just coming to the class?' 'yes sir' 'you are half an hour late' 'i know it', i hoped that i would be attacked now. i almost prayed: 'oh god of thunder, lord vishnu, please make samuel beat me.' 'why are you late?' i wanted to reply,' just to see what you can do'.but i merely said.'i have a headache, sir.' 'then why did you come to the school at all?' a most unexpected question from samuel. 'my father said that i should'nt miss the class, sir.' i said this seemed to impress samuel, ' your father is quiet right; a very sensible man. we want more parents like him.' ' oh you poor worm!', i thought, ' you dont know what my father has done to you.' i was more puzzled then ever about samuel's character. ' all right, go to your seat. have you still a headache?' 'slightly, sir.' i went to my seat with a bleeding heart. i had never met a man so good as samuel. the teacher was inspecting home lessons, which usually produced (at least, according to my impression) scenes of great violence. notebooks would be flung at faces, boys would be abused, caned and made to stand up on benches. but today samuel seemed to have developed more tolerance and gentleness. he pushed away the bad books, just touched people with the cane, never made anyone stand up for more than a few minutes. my turn came. i almost thanked god for the chance. 'where is your homework?' ' i have not done my homework, sir'. i said blandly. there was a pause. 'why - headache?', asked samuel. 'yes, sir' 'all right, sit down.' i sat down, wondering what had come over samuel. the period came to an end, and i felt desolate. the last period for the day was again taken by samuel. he came this time to teach us indian history. the period began at three-forty-five and ended at four-thirty. i had sat through the previous periods thinking acutely. i could not devise any means of provoking samuel. when the clock struck four i felt desperate. half an hour more. samuel was reading the red text, the portion describing vasco da gama's arrival in india. the children listened in half languor. i suddenly asked at the top of my voice, ' why did not columbus come to india, sir?' ' he lost his way' ' i cant believe it; it is unbelievable, sir' 'why?' 'such a great man. would he have not known the way?' 'dont shout. i can hear you quiet well.' ' i am not shouting sir, this is my ordinary voice. which god ha s given to me. how can i help it?' ' shut up and sit down' i sat down, feeling alightly happy at my success. the teacher threw a puzzled, suspicious glance at me and resumed his lessons. my next chance came when suchitra of the first bench got up and asked ,'sir, was vasco da gama the very first person to come to india?' before the teacher could answer, i shouted from the back bench, 'thats whats they say.' the teacher and all the students looked at me. the teacher was puzzled by my obtrusive behaviour today. 'you are shouting again.' 'i am not shouting sir. how can i help my voice given by god?' the school clock struck a quarter hour. a quarter more. i felt that i had to do something drastic in fifteen minutes. samuel had no doubt scouled at me and snubbed me, but it was hardly adequate. i felt that with a little more effort samuel could be made to deserve dismissal and imprisonment. the teacher came to the end of a section in the text-book and stopped. he proposed to spend the remaining fifteen minutes putting questions to the children. he ordered the whole class to put away their books, and asked someone in the second row,' what is the date of vasco da gama's arrival in india?' i shot up and screeched, '1648,december20.' 'you need'nt shout,' said the teacher. he asked, ' has your headache made you mad?' ' i have no headache now,sir.' replied the thunderer brightly. 'sit down, you idiot.' i felt thrilled at being called an idiot. 'if you get up again i will cane you,' said the teacher. i sat down, feeling happy at the promise. the teacher then asked,' im going to put up a few questions on the mughal period. among the mughal emperor whom would you call the greatest, whom the strongest and whom the most religious emperor.?' i got up to answer. as soon as i was seen, the teacher said emphatically,'sit down'. ' i want to answer, sit' 'sit down' 'no sir; i want to answer'. 'what did i say i'd do if you got up again?' 'you said you would cane me and peel the skin off my knuckles and make me press it on my forehead.' ' all right; come here.' i left my seat joyfully and hopped onto the platform. the teacher took out his cane from the drawer and shouted angrily, 'open your hand, you little devil.' he whacked three wholesome cuts on each palm. i recieved them without blanching. after half a dozen the teacher asked, 'will these do, or do you want some more?' i merely held out my hand again, and recieved two more; and the bell rang. i jumped down from the platform with a light heart, though my hands were smarting. i picked up my books, took out the letter lying in my pocket and ran to the headmaster's romm. i found the door locked. i asked the peon, ' where is the headmaster?' 'why do you want him?' 'my father has sent a letter for him' ' he has taken the afternoon off and wont be coming back for a week. you can give the letter to the assistant headmaster. he will be here now.' ' who is he?' 'your teacher, samuel. he will be here in a second.' i fled from the place. as soon as i reached home with the letter, father remarked,'i knew you would'nt deliver it, your a coward.' ' i swear our headmaster is on leave', i began. father replied,'dont lie in addition to being a coward......' i held up the envelop and said ,'i will give this to the headmaster as soon as he is back...' father snatched it from my hand, tore it up and thrust it into the wastepaper basket under his table. he muttered ,'dont come to me for help even if samuel throttles you. you deserve your samuel.'

love

Some say love………it is a river….. That travels the tangerines……. Some say love……….it is a razor….. That leaves…your soul to bleed… Some say love……….it is a hunger….. An endless aching need……. I say love…………….it is a flower……and U ……its only seed….. It’s the heart……afraid of breaking……that never learns to dent….. It’s the dream……afraid of waking……that never takes the chance… It’s the one……..who won’t be taken…..who cannot seem to give... And the soul……afraid of dying………that never learns to live………………. When the night has been too lonely…….and the wait has been too long…. And u see …. That love is only…….for the lucky and the strong… Just remember…….in the winter……..far beneath the bitter storm….. Lies the sea…. That with the suns love ….in the spring…..becomes………gold…..

Unkempt emotions of dangerous hues..

I met my old friends. I remember sitting with a friend In our favorite restaurant and my old days flashing before my eyes like pearls dangling on a string. I remember so much in a quiet moment between both of us on the table, when none of us knew what to talk about while sipping our cappuccino. And my mind just flies off to the times when the hateful blue uniform of my school suited me and we would come back home from school through the lonely jungle path. Making fun of almost anything extraordinary and uneven that would suddenly catch our interest. Life is so slow here –She would say. It’s calm, I tell you; take a try back in the plains and life will feel so fast that you won’t find time to breathe and look at your face in the mirror – I said. For my own part, I told her that as my personal experience people in the cities were more cunning, selfish and materialistic. Having spent 15 years of my beginning years in the seductive air of the hills. I had gathered within me higher, non-city like values. I had indulged and bathed in the spontaneity of spiritualism that I experienced in my heavenly home while I observed the slow selfless pace of life in nainital. I watched the birds chirp, I heard the music of those long lost moans of cool flowing waters in the hills, I colored my vision with the quiet uniform integrity that the green hills breathed into me, I learned to be quiet so I could let all those elements of nature speak-….elements like the falling winter snow, elements like the ripples in the water surfaces speaking of the destruction in its sincere serenity by a dove’s feather . I felt like I was part of nature. I felt more human than I could ever have felt. So real and sublime simply because I had the time and fortune to be blessed with a hilly habitat. I realized something that millions of privileged ones never get to realize. I realized the significance of calmness, the significance of serenity…-the mother of spirituality. People in this town seem familiar to me whether I know them or not. There lingers a kind of mental compatibility between us. There is something in those fair, faithless, unpredictable features that can make me trust them at any instance. I mean to say to them “ I don’t know you, but I think we can get to know each other better”, they say “for as long as time might permit”- they don’t need to say, I know that’s what they mean. In the city I have never experienced the excommunicated warmth of my people. True Warmth is impossible to express in words. It flows in the liquid eyes that meet the other’s after long times of separation. My grandfather once told me, that the true one shall never tell you that you are wonderful, he/she shall never disclose his extreme faithfulness to wards you. He’s too deep to see through. Time will speak for his heart. But the cunning ones will applaud you at your every step for an act that was your brashness rather than your courage. He will tell you that he shall slay himself at your feet. He/she will appear at every important event in your life just to show that they care. But when the time comes for the true test they will disappear and you’ll wonder where they went. Such is the demarcated line between cleverness and cunningness that begs to be defined and followed. It wants to proclaim its useful presence that everyone feels easy to ignore. In my town I was a child, I thought that innocence is appreciated, I thought I would be loved and encouraged if I were simple and harmless, I believed nobody would hurt me if I had no evil intentions, I kept my heart warm and my mind clear. But when I went to the cities, circumstances that changed surreptitiously with the weather seemed to thrash my long appreciated beliefs. I was suspended between my darkest fears and deepest hopes. My childishness and harmlessness was mistaken and propaganded as foolishness. Suddenly, a vast unseen world of egotism, vanity, and desire seemed to overwhelm my emotions. I began to doubt my clarity for fantasy. I thought for a while whether I was the real fool when the rest of the world seemed to be painted in completely different hues. Where I tried to make friends with my sincerity there people suspected me to be strange. People were so scared of believing anyone else. They were so insecure, so scared of believing in beauty that really already existed. There was great ego that spat out the fear of being cheated and being made a fool of. Their fear distanced me from them. There was just so much fear around in every hue….. Like an epidemic. For once in my life I realized….. Desire is what makes this world begin its global trot… But it’s the fear of annihilation and change that drives it and burns it beyond its variable limits. It’s true. I pretended to be a friend to everyone, when I didn’t really make any real friends. But how long can you hold yourself responsible if everyone lives in such desperation, fear and the tinkling desire for materialism. I was wrong; I was really never the fool in the first place. I was the fearless one who didn’t fear being made a fool of, who didn’t fear failure, the one who wasn’t afraid of being called a fool for believing in others. My grandfather’s words rang in my ears. If I wanted to live in fear, I didn’t deserve to be a creature as divine, intelligent and mighty as a human. I would rather be a sheep who lives in awe of the wolf. Or else I didn’t deserve to be human. Humanity seemed to be for the first time a synonym of divine faith in my life. For is it not true... confidence is a plant sprouting from the unimaginable fields of the faith we have in the almighty. When we dwell and rebel in desire, we learn to fear the reverse of our desires. If we desire light, we shall fear the dark. If we have loyalty, we shall fear impunity. If we have social standing, we shall fear downfall. If we have wealth, we shall fear poverty. If we have beauty, we shall fear the old age. Fear is a never changing constant in every achievement. Every achievement stemming from comparative analysis. When we compare one thing to the other. We divide it unnecessarily between what we want and what we do not want. Isn’t it strange, how we create our own lands and our own worlds… our own deserts and our own oasis... Although we all in reality live in the same world. The power to distinguish and compare could be so wholly deceptive is quiet unimaginable. To realize the truth… this is what is driving this world mad I sat in the balcony of my city home and gazed at the huge buildings built by privileged money-makers. At home in nainital, I knew everyone in my locality before I settled there, here, even after three months nobody knew anybody. The whether was hot yet people seemed to enjoy going to the designer stores in the afternoon but nobody would visit the other’s house to say “hello”. Once, the cooking gas in the kitchen had expired. My mother enquired the neighbor in front of our small apartment with a huge building of two kitchens. They said they had no extra supply. In the overcrowded city full of much richer people than in the town nobody offered a helping hand and we went to bed without food on the table. That night I lay awake with hunger and I missed the place where I truly belonged. I missed the familiarity of my schizophrenic neighbor who earned a minimal salary and yet offered my father a helping hand while he was washing his car. I realized that all the rich city people had acquired so much, built huge castles of concrete, they had at least three cars to drive-but for what? Especially when there is inexonarable fear of losing even a speck of dirt of one’s own land. I realized that the world today is not dominated by genius, humanity, selfishness, hatred, shamelessness, or even greed. It’s dominated by fear. And a victim of this vast spread fear is the last thing that I desire to become. I realized that humans are living the ‘fast-life’-yet, like cattle, and I want to be the human, never the inhuman. I only realized that it was fate that had made a few introspective and the rest retrospective. I was truly gifted and blessed to have a serene childhood in which I was kept far away from all the money, the cars, the buildings and the designer clothes. I wish secretly though I know it shall never be a reality. that everyone should have a childhood in the hills and a man of great learning and integrity like my grandfather. I thank god that we were never really that rich and privileged than that which was needed when I was a child, that we never had the ability to spend more than what was needed. Whatever changes in the forth coming future is yet to be experienced, seen and learned from. For the future is an untold reality. I guess that’s why it’s always the higher order that decides the good and the bad in every being. But no ... I do not define the good and the bad. I’d rather define the person rather than categories him in the general. I’d rather spent my life defining myself as one, whole and complete. The epitome of a person who never shifted an inch in either direction from what was defined as the mark of neutrality. For I have forgotten how to define. Crucified my intention to define. Suffocated my need to define. Burned away my desire to define and killed my fear to always define… The good and the bad… the big and the small… the weak and the mighty… the tall and the short… the young and the old… the sharp and the numb…. The temporary and the permanent…the broad and the narrow… the courageous and the fearful…….. For I have forgotten the definition or even the need to define what I see….. For what I see… Is complete.. It does not deserve to be defined...it is.. What is beyond any moral definition... and I am the indefinable.. in every respect.

Reasons

I’m looking ……… for a meaning…….for a reason….. Can you give it to me??......can you give me one meaning……one reason…. For me to be your own……… Why is it?........ Then tell me……….. You desire to make me your own? What passion it is ... that you can find in those deep eyes... What fragrance is it…… in my breath…….that you wish to feel? What beauty in my ever beholding elegance that makes you wonder…… Makes you wonder……and wonder…..and wonder……………. I see in the ever truthful mirror of mine…….. A vastness beyond my words…. A vastness beyond your touch……. A vastness beyond your dreams… A vastness like the wide open prairie…. A vastness so vast…..it can touch the corners of this land….. Or maybe…. the corners of your heart. Can you figure it out then?....... this vastness beyond my words? My tender touch to your open wounds….. So impossible to find elsewhere... God made it its own gracious creation….. My beauty so innocent, So inimitable…… So untouched….. You may wonder away to greener pastures in search …… of your ‘perfect idea’……. But oh…….where will you find elsewhere ……. This vastness as vast as my own…. The innocence as unheard of as mine…… The passion as strong as that in my eyes…. For you will burn ……burn away in search of me…… For once you let me go……… I will scatter…….spread wide across the endless sky….. Like blinding smoke.. And you will be left with fond thoughts …. of me……… spread wide across the sky. Look up into the sky whenever you will…….. My touch will linger …. as far as the wide open prairies…….as far as this sky would end…. Find me once more if you will…… But It shall be this time around…………. Like your burning desire …you’re dying attempt…. of grasping the air you breathe within …..which will….only be realized….. In the sweetest of your dreams.. Farewell love… - aansh 09-07-2007