Is it new? Is it yours? Is it original? The thought? Was it a figment that sparked off your brain and is it yours alone? I wondered and toyed around with the idea of recycling, of mind, heart, head, brain, combinations, whatever!
Thoughts are like the clouds, fleeting and full of air or gas or water, they are never still, cannot be bottled and are a mixture of recycled water and air, the water we drink and the air we breathe are in the clouds and the water in the clouds is in us, just like our thoughts, recycled and flitting past the mind’s sky.
Friday, July 8, 2011
What dies early?
Youth: It just slips past the fingers like grains of sand dust, swept away in the breeze…
Love: It grows and gushes and gnaws at such an erratic speed when it begins, the end is just inconceivable and it dies out in a rush of blank spaces before you know you have been hit and then run over brutally.
Romance: After all, romance is a fictional, whimsical representation of love…
Money: When it comes, it comes smelly and dirty and messes up your hands, when it goes it leaves behind the bitter, rancid stench of its trail, alive and etched in your memory, unwilling to fade.
Innocence: This one is a killer, even before you have the full pleasure of being in the blissful state of innocence, its brutally snatched away and replaced with the reality of understanding the truth, the obvious vicious world that is waiting to strike and kill the unarmed, unwilling innocence, dragging it into a bloody fight and not giving it a full chance.
Truth: It fades out in a flicker of reality as it succumbs to the eternal fire of lies and conceit, blended n with the deceitful charming ways of untruths.
Its honour, courage, virtue and principle that lasts. They stay on and if adopted and adapted grow on to strengthen the otherwise weak bonds of life, stitching in purpose and will.
Love: It grows and gushes and gnaws at such an erratic speed when it begins, the end is just inconceivable and it dies out in a rush of blank spaces before you know you have been hit and then run over brutally.
Romance: After all, romance is a fictional, whimsical representation of love…
Money: When it comes, it comes smelly and dirty and messes up your hands, when it goes it leaves behind the bitter, rancid stench of its trail, alive and etched in your memory, unwilling to fade.
Innocence: This one is a killer, even before you have the full pleasure of being in the blissful state of innocence, its brutally snatched away and replaced with the reality of understanding the truth, the obvious vicious world that is waiting to strike and kill the unarmed, unwilling innocence, dragging it into a bloody fight and not giving it a full chance.
Truth: It fades out in a flicker of reality as it succumbs to the eternal fire of lies and conceit, blended n with the deceitful charming ways of untruths.
Its honour, courage, virtue and principle that lasts. They stay on and if adopted and adapted grow on to strengthen the otherwise weak bonds of life, stitching in purpose and will.
Summer Saffron
It’s the colour of summer that’s like saffron, maybe even the smell. Or is it the other way around? I wonder if the monsoons are as inspiring now as they used to be.
I don’t know if I feel the same way though about rain, it has changed, the mad rush that drove me into the arms of any rain is now a more subdued, and I’ll stand and watch and cry along sort of feeling.
The depth and intensity have changed colour from summery saffron to a bleak indelible blotch of dull colour.
I don’t know if I feel the same way though about rain, it has changed, the mad rush that drove me into the arms of any rain is now a more subdued, and I’ll stand and watch and cry along sort of feeling.
The depth and intensity have changed colour from summery saffron to a bleak indelible blotch of dull colour.
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