Paper Thin Trajectories

It doesn't happen that often. You don't get many chances. We are living on paper thin trajectories, Rose. And that's how it is between us. It doesn't happen that often.

If you are very lucky, someone will walk into your life and divide the time. divide your life. That's what I had heard. I was on a borrowed time in Russia, and an old man whose face was wrinkled with regrets told me this. He smoked long on a pipe, adjusted his artificial leg, and went back in his past to tell me this.

That's how you walked in, Rose. You divided my life, into the time before I met you and the time after I met you. One second of my life after you, and the whole time before you doesn't stand a chance.

I have always imagined us humans as the by-products of the universe. Now you would imagine who talks like this to a pretty girl like you, and that is the difference between your world and my world. The world where I come from. We don't say nice things. We say real things.

So where was I? 

Humans are the by-products, Rose. Of the universe, the creator. Imagine, it created the cosmos, the stars and the deep valleys. It created the snow. It created the deserts. It created the beauty that stares at your face, looks into your eyes. And with the same hands, do you think it created the lying, stealing, robbing, disgusting humans too?

Nope. I don't think so Rose.

But, if we don't love each other, we prove our unwanted existence. If we don't look into each other's eyes and see the love, we are done. Our love should scream back to the universe.

Wanderers of rock and all beneath

She had that something in her face. Or maybe it was her eyes, I don't know. But when I looked at her, I saw a beautiful soul. Not in the sense of perfection, or symmetry. In the sense of randomness, of uncertainty, of brightness. And in her imperfect eyes and messed up hairs, my world was weaved.

I could go on and on, but the words maybe fall short to tell her essence. She isn't a paint drawn carefully, curve by curve and color by color. She is a splash of all the colors and all the curves, and in one splash the beauty is created. In careful sketching beauty is manufactured. And that splash has colored my gaunt white soul with all the musics and melodies of the universe. Now I understand why painters paint, why dancers dance and why writers write. That is their prayers for more colors and more curves.

I fail with words, but only if I were adept in channeling my heart's voice, I would look into her eyes and make her understand what she does to me. I will tell her a story maybe. Or a poem. I will sing maybe. I will let her know that she matters. more than the universe, she matters. More than the creators and the ancestors and anything that matters, she matters. I wouldn't expect her voice, nor I would expect her eyes in mine again, but if she does for one more second she would know. She would gasp. She wouldn't have seen the truth before.

There must be something more to life than just what is seen. And I think about this when I see her.

My kind of peace

And again I found myself turning the same pages and repeating the same lines. Its a subconscious clock maybe, that makes me fall to that same trail of messages that I failed to send. To the trail of words that are still stuck at the tongue, unable to find voice. And every word that I failed to utter now pains me like needles, that start from the skin and reach far underneath.
              Every man has a story that he lives by. A story that he lives for. Something that eases out a man in turmoil. And that story hardly ever pans out. What only pans out is music. You are musicians, humans. You are not here to write stories. You are here to write music. And music is not written by hands or guitar picks. Its written by the soul, its howls and laughter and cries. And you know no bounds of a soul's fantasy.
              Maybe this was where I failed. I was trying to utter words, write sentences. Maybe I should ask her to listen to the songs of the heart, not the flexes of hands. Maybe.

The Only World That We Have

I do not like the world I live in. But who does? Everyone sings their escape plan as a lullaby when they have trouble sleeping. That ultimate dream of finally getting out of this hellhole everybody finds themselves stuck in. So do I.

I dream of a Lamborghini. Yeah, the ferocious sound of it is the most soothing thing to my ears. Or the sound of a Triumph cruiser does just fine. I have been dreaming of it since as long as I can remember. I have some buried dreams too, but I keep dusting them time and again. I am just afraid of the time when I forget how many dreams have suffocated in the pile of dust. Or if the well dusted dreams are the only trophies of my life.

But what is the prominence of dreams in this mundane world we live in. We are tormented by routine, but we wear it as a crest on our heads. We are caged by mediocrities that we grow up seeing and believing in. The escape plans get narrower and fade away by the time, just like the hairs on a man. And you accept mediocrity, and start wearing it as a crest. shielding it from any infectious dream that might touch it and disprove its existence. Have you ever tried to show a man the beautiful when he has accepted the ugly?

I dream of wide roads. I dream of music festivals. I dream of her.
And I have never let anything corrupt my secret dreams, at least till now. I have not let mediocrity destroy the blank pages that are going to be written with my dreams. But a dream being hatched too long turns into a mild fantasy, with no fuel to turn into reality.

Today, on the pious occasion of nothing special, I vow to get going.

The First Thought

Where do we all live?

Who are we?

To what do we belong?

We are the tangled emotions and unfinished thoughts. We are wanderers of this great mystery of mind. We are the creators of the universe in which we are stuck. We are nothing but one soul in a billion bodies. We are the creators of God, the writers of mythologies, the course correctors.

We are always unaware. Our mind is never where we are. Its either dwelling in past or flying into future. Somebody from us creates the music that none want to hear. We are lights in a starry sky. We are waves in a vast ocean. We are all part of a game. Or rather the game is now a part of us. We are meats with the misfortune of slow decay. We are a lot many things.

We are free, but are in chains because we are afraid of what fruits the freedom may bear. We are the killers of our own fortune, the biggest obstacle between us and victory. We are perishable but we live as if we are eternal. Or, we are eternal but we live like we are perishable. We are a big confusion. We are the creators' bad dream. We are the by products, maybe.

But we did fine, you and I?