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Hands



Hands, originally uploaded by -clicking-.

Amazing photograph of humanity at its best. Doesn’t it tug at your heart and feel loved by these hands?

Path to Wise Living

I will need to take away the moral/judgmental attitude to life and people around me. There are life situations and there are life stories. Stories are how mind interprets situations and therefore is a perceptive layer over the situations. This process of interpretation affects judgement and prevents the right action. There are only life situations, and to deal with a situation you will need to take appropriate actions.

That is all there is to solving problems: Problems, as a word is again an interpretation. There are just situations. When I look out at life, what do I see now? I see certain situations that I wish were not present. But do I have any ability to wish them away? No. So all I need to do is to take a hard look at these situations and decide how I should deal with them. This does not include sitting on my ass and whining all the day – that is not an option, because whining about a situation does not affect the situation in any way. Whining is an action, but in no way has a causal affect on the situation on hand. So the correct (not ‘right’) approach is to take an action that affects the situation. If you have a punching bag hanging, you have to punch the bag to move it. Staring at the bag, which qualifies to be an action, would not move the bag.

So the there are actions, and then there are correct actions for the situations on hand. Select the most appropriate action for the situation on hand and affect it to your desired state. This is how one must live one’s life. Action and action alone is what we have the right to do. Life will present situations – always. Be that be a happy situation, in which case we have nothing to do but enjoy that situation. When the situation in unhappy, which is most of the time, we must focus on taking the correct action: (1) Remove yourself from the situation by moving away from it. (2) Try to change the situation by taking the correct action (3) Accept the situation.

For instance, I was driving a 2006 Chevrolet Malibu sedan for last 4 years. Though it was a brand new car, I was not happy driving it. So this was a situation. I had a car, and I didn’t like driving it. Simple. So I could have removed myself from the situation – how? By selling my car, and travel by public transport. I could try to affect the situation itself – how? By selling the car and buying new one. I could have simply accepted the situation – without judgement as a part of my life. After suffering for considerable period of time, I decided to AFFECT the situation by taking the correct action: Sell the car and buy a new one, a better one.

So this illustrates the fact that taking correct action to affect the situation on hand is the best approach. That does not guarantee that the situation will be affected to my satisfaction. What if my car had depreciated so much that I were still in negative equity, and I were not willing to shell out more cash to buy a new car? So you see taking the correct action (trying to sell the car) may not always guarantee satisfactory situational changes. What should you do then? Continue to take correct actions. Taking incorrect ones, such as being sad and whine, will only lead to more sadness and suffering. In such cases, complete acceptance of the situation without judgement and reservation is the CORRECT action. So you could lie low, accept the situation, live in it, learn from it and continue taking correct actions, until one such action will change the situation.

Situations will change. They must change. That is the nature of this world. But, if you fail to take correct action, always, then your suffering will never cease. Situations come and go, but mind will continue to suffer because all its actions do not have any causal affect on the situations.

Being wise is to follow this living. Do what you must, but be aware of their impact on the immediate situation on hand.

The World in 2010



The World in 2010, originally uploaded by CuriousBystander.

The world in 2010 is going to be exciting. A beginning of a new decade filled with hopes and promises. Unlimited space for creativity and reflection on human greed.

I made this image yesterday to express the transition to the future. My brand new Kindle 2 – a gift from my beloved wife. The magazine in the back is the Annual Issue of ‘The Economist’ reflecting on how the current year will be.

Its a juxtaposition of the ‘now’ and ‘what will be’.

New Year

This year is a good year. The main goals are not many. Just simple few things. And most of all, I want to “Empty my mind, and fill it with Awareness”.

Everything else will follow.

Life is here and now – always. But in practical sense, life is to be lived, loved, and just slow down like watching a movie in slow motion.

Love to me, and love to my wife and kid. And love to all life around me.

The Dramatic Need…

Every character must have a dramatic need. The need is the drive that makes the character undertake a journey. Without this need, there is no story, there is no life. There is always a need that drives us. In fiction, as in real life, there is always a need, a burning desire that drives and defines our journey. A story is as interesting as the need. There are approximately 6.7 Billion people on this planet. Meaning that there are around 6.7 Billion stories. How many of these are of any interest to us? May be all, as every story is unique. But then like any other things in life, there are some that are riveting; that grabs you by ears and makes you sit up and listen. That shakes you and leaves you speechless. Silent.

Why? What do they tell? What is it that moves us more?

In order for us to understand that, we must delve deep into human psyche. In there lies the seed for all great stories. And in there lies the secret of writing one. I have observed many human beings close enough. I have made opinions and passed judgments. I have hated them, and I have loved them. But if you look too close, you will notice that when all is said and done, what remains is this strange constant sense of unrest. Every human activity arises from this unrest. Our creativity arises from this unrest. Our desires arise from this core. Our wishes and needs, everything that we see around is the outcome of this unrest.

But expressing this unrest in a form is impossible. A brilliant story expresses this unrest in the character in a manner which becomes synonym to our own. The character then becomes our spokesman. The character gives voice and life to our own stories. And illustrates the fact that it is OK to have this unrest. It is OK to have a need. It is OK to be human. Art is non-judgmental. It only illustrates. What you make of that illustration is your personal opinion. Watching Joe Buck leave his job, and leaving for New York City to live a life of a “kept” man could shock someone. It could also seem foolish, hillarious, insane, frivolous.

In short, not a life well spent. But then, getting into the skin of Joe Buck, you will realize that THAT is his need; his desire and purpose of life. He does not laugh at himself, or is shocked at his apparently (a possible judgment) immoral, perverted goal. He is dead serious. He says, “What the hell have I got to sit around here for?” He leaves his job and begins to pursue his goal. What follows next could be seen as a commentary on someone’s life, but that will be taking a narrow view of it. A story such as this only expresses one of the 6.7 billion hopes and dreams. It only invites you to become a mate in the journey of one man who had some dream and how he deals with it.

That is life. And by writing stories such as this, we only attempt to play the God. Not a moral one. Not an immoral one. Just the one expressing our own innate realization of life.

Redemption – my first attempt at short story
In Uncategorized on May 5, 2009 at 10:37 pm
There are times when footsteps of the mind halt in mid-air, like those rain-filled clouds of July debating the downpour. Held only by a string of breaths that caress the restless thoughts, it just floats on aimlessly. Ana was walking along a path, in a park, lined by trees whose crowns had formed a vast green canopy. The park was stretched across on a vast piece of land, located at the center of the city. Most of the trees were old. Their stems were wide, gray and scrubby. Some of them were covered with deep green mosses, giving them a woolly look.
“They seem like tired hands of an old man, trying to hold on to dear life with whatever is left,” she thought. The sun was bright, and made patches of light on the dark gravel. A particular tree was in full bloom, with bright yellow flowers covering all its branches. Shaken by the slight wind, some had fallen, and lay scattered all around. She was careful not to step over any of these flowers. She always was. She could not help but smile, staring at those flowers dancing, and whirling with the breeze. They were beautiful, yes. And, for a while, she had thrown open the windows and one could see her soul sparkling through, like two large dews holding the sun.
She had slept fitfully last night. The night was warm, and humid. And, there were noises inside her head. Her eyes had held the specters of people from her past. Amidst the noise, she had seen them living the times she had long forgotten. She didn’t know they were still alive. But, last night the doors that had long forbidden her past to walk into her present, were thrown open by a voice she had come to like, and perhaps love. She had not seen the man. She had only heard him. His voice was like soothing chuckles of a quiet river on a warm sunny day. He had touched her like no man ever did. Every time he spoke to her, his voice seemed to creep into her coldness like the slow trickle of warm blood.
“Couple of days ago, a lady friend of mine was sexually harassed. She had a job out of town, and had to spend the night, with her boss, in a trailer. At 3.30 in the morning, he crawled into her bed and made suggestion about what they could do to pass an hour or so. She had refused. And so lost her job. And, now she wonders whether to let him get away with it, or take him to court . . .” she remembered him saying last night. And, that was it. Those words, riding his voice, had knocked at the very doors she had closed tight on her festering past. The specters were aroused, and had danced all night long. Celebrating perhaps their newfound freedom.
“That’s so common. It’s happening all the time.” was only she could say. But beneath those cold, indifferent words, hell was rousing storms. In the darkness of her bedroom, long after the voice had hung up, tears had flown like the rivers of the wild. And the torments that had lain latent in her veins rose to shred her apart. She had wished he hadn’t spoken to her about his friend. She had wished he hadn’t spoken to her at all last night. And yet, despite that wish, she was aware of this strange desire to be with him now. Just the sight of his face would have quieted those storms.
“How does he look like?” she wondered. “He has evaded all my questions about his looks. I wonder why. But what does it matter? I wish I were with him now. I wish I could hold his hands, and walk along this road, talking about these flowers and the wind that dances with them. Today it’s like the-morning-after – so quiet; the sun and a breeze like the sigh of a spent lover playing along. I wish I could see him.”
And that made her more miserable. The faint pain in her heart had refused to go away. She was drawn to its dull ache. Hands, flashed before her eyes, snaking into places even the sun was forbidden from. Feelings that were hitherto unknown, mixed with confusion had crept into her blood and ran riots. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?” were questions that remained unspoken. And in response the groveling hands had sneaked deeper into her tenderness. If you step on a loosely held piece of snow, they crack, and you tumble down the face of an avalanche. Perhaps the doors to her past were so wearied and beaten down by the winds of time that a little breeze tore it down like a house of cards.
“Strange is the nature of desire. Years ago, it had left me a feeling like a used rag. And at times, like now, it makes me want to snuggle up to someone, and bask in the warm sun by the riverside, where butterflies would flap their bright mottled wings silently, and the stillness of the moment would buzz like honeybees. I would sit by the bank, and dip my legs in the cool, crisp water. The pebbles, worn smooth by the ever-loving touch of the river, would seem to hold time in their hearts. O my, how I wish I could walk out of this skin and flesh, and wash my blood off in this clear stream, and be clean, again.
But wait! Could memories be ever washed – the memories of those touches that had sought pleasures in my softness? Could I ever shred them to pieces and throw them to the wind?”
A squirrel ran past her, and climbed the nearest tree. Halfway up the stump, it stopped and stared at her. Its furry coat gleamed in the streak of sun falling down, and eyes sparkled back a sense of innocence that was strangely heart-warming. She felt like caressing its skin. Then suddenly it scurried up along the stump, and vanished somewhere among the branches. The emptiness, however, remained lingering.
“And this is how the mind gets tired, running around with the waves of thoughts, trying to figure out, reason, measure, weigh, and judge. Ana, this is why men have always felt like flying. Because, in flying, there is a peculiar sense of release”, She heard him saying.
She was walking past the row of benches that were mostly occupied. An old woman was reading the morning newspaper. Her gray hairs fell straight down to her shoulder. She had her glasses perched up her nose. Ana walked up and sat beside her. She needed to talk. She needed a release.
She wished she were with someone else, with a past different than hers. “How about swapping yours with mine, grandma?”, she thought aloud. Or rather, the thoughts blurted out into words, tired perhaps of being stifled for years. The old woman was startled. She glanced up at her with a curious look, and smiled. Ana didn’t realize she had thought aloud.
“Is anything wrong, child?”
“Nothing, but everything, I guess. How have you been all these years? Must have been a truly wonderful journey all along. Yes, must have been. Else how do you explain your sitting here early in the morning, reading a newspaper, with this contented look on your face? I wish I were you.”
“And I wish I were you, my child! So young and beautiful! You remind me of my days I had spent in the lap of Mt. Kilimanjaro, so many years ago. Pristine white snows adorning the blue, scraggy rocks. At the base lay the vast rolling plains of African Savannah. We had been to Serengeti National Park. During the days that followed, we saw the primal nature of life and death.
There cannot be anything more beautiful on the face of earth than witnessing death stalking life, every single moment, and every single breath. It all seemed like a surreal world where violent passion for life reigned supreme. A passion, so raw and violent, and yet so beautiful. You could see this in every streak of blood that poured out of a struggling young gazelle.”
Ana was wonder struck. The old woman had spoken with such richness of vision that it all lay bared before her eyes. For a moment she was empty, devoid of longing, and poised like a drop of water hanging from the leaf blade after a heavy shower.
“Love life, child, for what it’s worth. The sheer beauty of every single moment could drive you crazy only if you stare back at what’s passing by. Moments come and go, taking away what you were in that moment and leaving behind what you could be the next moment. Why carry the burden of a lifetime when you could wash them away in this flowing tides?
You are born anew, every moment, from that timeless womb that wraps you and me.”
Ana didn’t know what to say. She only heard her breath. And saw a smile, through the haze of mist that clouded her mind, she had longed to see. It was he, smiling.
“Strange, how these voices can keep on going. I push them out of the door, and they start banging on the windowpane like raindrops, hitting the glass, and then flowing down in small streams. I listen to them for a while, and realize they wouldn’t stop. It’s the monsoon of my life.”
Blue green water lay stretched before her. The lake was not so big. It was beautiful though. On other days, people could be seen rowing quietly across the placid water. Suddenly, a kingfisher shot up from a dead branch sticking out of the still water, and floated in mid air, beating its wings frantically. And, then dropped itself into the water. Ripples went out from the place it had hit. Moments later, it emerged with a fish in its beak. The sun was breaking out of the trees.
Ana got up, walked to the edge which was lined with reeds, and grasses. Dragonflies were hovering over the water. She stopped. There was a peculiar silence out there. She listened closely hoping to listen to buzz of their wings. But all what she heard was a constant buzz of silence ringing in her ears. “Be careful, child. The water is deep in there, and the soil is still wet from last night’s rain,” the old woman warned her. Ana walked on along the bank. She was past everything now. She sat down by a rock, with her legs dipped in the water.
“There are things that we don’t need anymore, and yet somehow we forget to throw them away. They keep on lying around for years right before us. But we live our life as if they don’t exist. Somehow we get comfortable and familiar with their invisible presence. They become the part of our lives. And so essential they become that we would miss them if they cease to be.”
The fishes swam in and started playing around her legs. A smile broke lose and stretched like a rainbow around her pretty face.
The kingfisher flew out again into the open air, out of the woods.
Somewhere, in those same moments, a man shot his 35 years old wife and a 9 years old son at point blank range, and then killed himself. He had left a note for his parents stating the reason. He was tired of carrying his life. And so had decided to put it down.
And he did.
By a pool of blood.
//27th May 2003

(Found this draft in my archive, written 6 years ago…)

There are times when footsteps of the mind halt in mid-air, like those rain-filled clouds of July debating the downpour. Held only by a string of breaths that caress the restless thoughts, it just floats on aimlessly. Ana was walking along a path, in a park, lined by trees whose crowns had formed a vast green canopy. The park was stretched across on a vast piece of land, located at the center of the city. Most of the trees were old. Their stems were wide, gray and scrubby. Some of them were covered with deep green mosses, giving them a woolly look.

“They seem like tired hands of an old man, trying to hold on to dear life with whatever is left,” she thought. The sun was bright, and made patches of light on the dark gravel. A particular tree was in full bloom, with bright yellow flowers covering all its branches. Shaken by the slight wind, some had fallen, and lay scattered all around. She was careful not to step over any of these flowers. She always was. She could not help but smile, staring at those flowers dancing, and whirling with the breeze. They were beautiful, yes. And, for a while, she had thrown open the windows and one could see her soul sparkling through, like two large dews holding the sun.

She had slept fitfully last night. The night was warm, and humid. And, there were noises inside her head. Her eyes had held the specters of people from her past. Amidst the noise, she had seen them living the times she had long forgotten. She didn’t know they were still alive. But, last night the doors that had long forbidden her past to walk into her present, were thrown open by a voice she had come to like, and perhaps love. She had not seen the man. She had only heard him. His voice was like soothing chuckles of a quiet river on a warm sunny day. He had touched her like no man ever did. Every time he spoke to her, his voice seemed to creep into her coldness like the slow trickle of warm blood.

“Couple of days ago, a lady friend of mine was sexually harassed. She had a job out of town, and had to spend the night, with her boss, in a trailer. At 3.30 in the morning, he crawled into her bed and made suggestion about what they could do to pass an hour or so. She had refused. And so lost her job. And, now she wonders whether to let him get away with it, or take him to court . . .” she remembered him saying last night. And, that was it. Those words, riding his voice, had knocked at the very doors she had closed tight on her festering past. The specters were aroused, and had danced all night long. Celebrating perhaps their newfound freedom.

“That’s so common. It’s happening all the time.” was only she could say. But beneath those cold, indifferent words, hell was rousing storms. In the darkness of her bedroom, long after the voice had hung up, tears had flown like the rivers of the wild. And the torments that had lain latent in her veins rose to shred her apart. She had wished he hadn’t spoken to her about his friend. She had wished he hadn’t spoken to her at all last night. And yet, despite that wish, she was aware of this strange desire to be with him now. Just the sight of his face would have quieted those storms.

“How does he look like?” she wondered. “He has evaded all my questions about his looks. I wonder why. But what does it matter? I wish I were with him now. I wish I could hold his hands, and walk along this road, talking about these flowers and the wind that dances with them. Today it’s like the-morning-after – so quiet; the sun and a breeze like the sigh of a spent lover playing along. I wish I could see him.”

And that made her more miserable. The faint pain in her heart had refused to go away. She was drawn to its dull ache. Hands, flashed before her eyes, snaking into places even the sun was forbidden from. Feelings that were hitherto unknown, mixed with confusion had crept into her blood and ran riots. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?” were questions that remained unspoken. And in response the groveling hands had sneaked deeper into her tenderness. If you step on a loosely held piece of snow, they crack, and you tumble down the face of an avalanche. Perhaps the doors to her past were so wearied and beaten down by the winds of time that a little breeze tore it down like a house of cards.

“Strange is the nature of desire. Years ago, it had left me a feeling like a used rag. And at times, like now, it makes me want to snuggle up to someone, and bask in the warm sun by the riverside, where butterflies would flap their bright mottled wings silently, and the stillness of the moment would buzz like honeybees. I would sit by the bank, and dip my legs in the cool, crisp water. The pebbles, worn smooth by the ever-loving touch of the river, would seem to hold time in their hearts. O my, how I wish I could walk out of this skin and flesh, and wash my blood off in this clear stream, and be clean, again.

But wait! Could memories be ever washed – the memories of those touches that had sought pleasures in my softness? Could I ever shred them to pieces and throw them to the wind?”

A squirrel ran past her, and climbed the nearest tree. Halfway up the stump, it stopped and stared at her. Its furry coat gleamed in the streak of sun falling down, and eyes sparkled back a sense of innocence that was strangely heart-warming. She felt like caressing its skin. Then suddenly it scurried up along the stump, and vanished somewhere among the branches. The emptiness, however, remained lingering.

“And this is how the mind gets tired, running around with the waves of thoughts, trying to figure out, reason, measure, weigh, and judge. Ana, this is why men have always felt like flying. Because, in flying, there is a peculiar sense of release”, She heard him saying.

She was walking past the row of benches that were mostly occupied. An old woman was reading the morning newspaper. Her gray hairs fell straight down to her shoulder. She had her glasses perched up her nose. Ana walked up and sat beside her. She needed to talk. She needed a release.

She wished she were with someone else, with a past different than hers. “How about swapping yours with mine, grandma?”, she thought aloud. Or rather, the thoughts blurted out into words, tired perhaps of being stifled for years. The old woman was startled. She glanced up at her with a curious look, and smiled. Ana didn’t realize she had thought aloud.

“Is anything wrong, child?”

“Nothing, but everything, I guess. How have you been all these years? Must have been a truly wonderful journey all along. Yes, must have been. Else how do you explain your sitting here early in the morning, reading a newspaper, with this contented look on your face? I wish I were you.”

“And I wish I were you, my child! So young and beautiful! You remind me of my days I had spent in the lap of Mt. Kilimanjaro, so many years ago. Pristine white snows adorning the blue, scraggy rocks. At the base lay the vast rolling plains of African Savannah. We had been to Serengeti National Park. During the days that followed, we saw the primal nature of life and death.

There cannot be anything more beautiful on the face of earth than witnessing death stalking life, every single moment, and every single breath. It all seemed like a surreal world where violent passion for life reigned supreme. A passion, so raw and violent, and yet so beautiful. You could see this in every streak of blood that poured out of a struggling young gazelle.”

Ana was wonder struck. The old woman had spoken with such richness of vision that it all lay bared before her eyes. For a moment she was empty, devoid of longing, and poised like a drop of water hanging from the leaf blade after a heavy shower.

“Love life, child, for what it’s worth. The sheer beauty of every single moment could drive you crazy only if you stare back at what’s passing by. Moments come and go, taking away what you were in that moment and leaving behind what you could be the next moment. Why carry the burden of a lifetime when you could wash them away in this flowing tides?

You are born anew, every moment, from that timeless womb that wraps you and me.”

Ana didn’t know what to say. She only heard her breath. And saw a smile, through the haze of mist that clouded her mind, she had longed to see. It was he, smiling.

“Strange, how these voices can keep on going. I push them out of the door, and they start banging on the windowpane like raindrops, hitting the glass, and then flowing down in small streams. I listen to them for a while, and realize they wouldn’t stop. It’s the monsoon of my life.”

Blue green water lay stretched before her. The lake was not so big. It was beautiful though. On other days, people could be seen rowing quietly across the placid water. Suddenly, a kingfisher shot up from a dead branch sticking out of the still water, and floated in mid air, beating its wings frantically. And, then dropped itself into the water. Ripples went out from the place it had hit. Moments later, it emerged with a fish in its beak. The sun was breaking out of the trees.

Ana got up, walked to the edge which was lined with reeds, and grasses. Dragonflies were hovering over the water. She stopped. There was a peculiar silence out there. She listened closely hoping to listen to buzz of their wings. But all what she heard was a constant buzz of silence ringing in her ears. “Be careful, child. The water is deep in there, and the soil is still wet from last night’s rain,” the old woman warned her. Ana walked on along the bank. She was past everything now. She sat down by a rock, with her legs dipped in the water.

“There are things that we don’t need anymore, and yet somehow we forget to throw them away. They keep on lying around for years right before us. But we live our life as if they don’t exist. Somehow we get comfortable and familiar with their invisible presence. They become the part of our lives. And so essential they become that we would miss them if they cease to be.”

The fishes swam in and started playing around her legs. A smile broke lose and stretched like a rainbow around her pretty face.

The kingfisher flew out again into the open air, out of the woods.

Somewhere, in those same moments, a man shot his 35 years old wife and a 9 years old son at point blank range, and then killed himself. He had left a note for his parents stating the reason. He was tired of carrying his life. And so had decided to put it down.

And he did.

By a pool of blood.

//27th May 2003

July Rain

Clouds that overcast
the face of this river, are they
not the river,
in essence?

touched, once, by the warmth of
the sun, they had broken the fetters, and
risen – to fly, to float, to spread across
the azured sky.

And, now pregnant
with joy, and tired of wandering, they
gather to fall, to rest, and, to flow
quietly with the river of their becoming.

//2nd Sept 2002

What does it wonder ’bout – this river,
When it touches the salty morasses of
Its own grave? knowing well that the end
is imminent, could it stop
from embracing the ocean, that seem thirsty,
ever so?

does any fear ever arise, while it faces
the vast expanse of this
limitless graveyard? The calmness of its flow carries
no signature of the impending death. Offering
the silt of ages to the times-to-come, it flows quietly
into a world beyond.

(for Theron Bradford – I met on Yahoo! boards, dying of liver cancer)

//Date Unknown

Have you ever felt like shutting away the noise of your own mind? Have you ever felt like being alone, all alone, floating on the face of ocean, with only an oar and some dried fish, away from people, away from the land? The sound of this water splashing against the sides of the boat – does this disturb your contemplation? Is it not an enough noise to thread you to this world of humans?

What do you wonder about? Do you see this sun setting down slowly, scrawling bloody streaks across the sky? Do you see how this ocean sparkles, wearing a million emeralds? Or perhaps, you must be staring at this millions of pixels that make up the words that I write. Yes, even this is a marvel.

Indeed.

Why do you keep looking out? There is nothing here, these endless stretch of green waters, that is all. What, do you feel this tug, too? Yes. I had felt it long, long ago. It had me thinking that there is so much sadness in these moments we live. It had filled my eyes with tears. Strange, the same salt, that runs in our blood oozes out with these tears that we shed.

We have an ocean within. An ocean of life that splashes against the walls of our mortal existence and disturbs our dreamy walk.

Now, where are we sailing to, my friend? I am here, and now. Don’t wish to sail any more. The noise that once drove me mad has subsided. The voices remain, though, whispering. I love them, these voices that speak inside my head. They are like a million me. All arising and speaking forth their wishes, oh so passionate they are.

But they melt away into the fabric of my own mind. Leaving behind a signature. The signature that you see, my friend.

The signature that I am.

Tell me, how do you like this scrawl? This me? Etched by these voices, these thoughts, on the fabric of life, through the woods of time?

Do tell me, my friend, how do you like this strange mural that is me… ????

// 21st Aug, 2002

What does it wonder ’bout – this river,
When it touches the salty morasses of
Its own grave? knowing well that the end
is imminent, could it stop
from embracing the ocean, that seem thirsty,
ever so?

does any fear ever arise, while it faces
the vast expanse of this
limitless graveyard? The calmness of its flow carries
no signature of the impending death. Offering
the silt of ages to the times-to-come, it flows quietly
into a world beyond.

(for Theron Bradford – I met on Yahoo! boards, dying of liver cancer)

//Date Unknown