A colorless flower

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Slowly the light faded, the night covered his heart, no sign of stars even.  In that pitch dark, under the shadow of the night, a sapling that has grown inside that was watered for days and nights and well preserved has sprouted a flower, a colorless flower, which cannot be seen in dark, cannot be seen in the winter, and cannot be seen by most of the beings. This flower, most of the time, fades and withers on the cotton before the light comes.  And being colorless it fades away from others eyes too, only the sapling and gardener knows its existence and exhaustion. When he closed his eyes the flower withered on his cheeks. The image of converting his words in printed papers, his long-lasting dream, flashed his eyes.  He knows a little courage and confidence will one day make his dream come true. But what could seed that courage and confidence in his heart is something he doesn't know.  The dream of somebody holding his heart, as coalesced words, in hands to read and appreciate watered the sapling in his heart and the colorless flowers dropped one by one on his cheeks. 

The longing for the light, the true light which could give colors to those flowers, swayed the solitude cradle and oiled his dark flames.  The fumes of the pangs made him suffocate as if somebody clutched his throat.  Be it whatever, he kept is heart beat and sapling grow in a belief that one day he will reach an oasis in this deserted life.

When he has missed an angel that flew from up above to take him to heaven he made all his love for the angel into words.  He wrote all those words sitting on a sea shore where he saw a mermaid that soothed his heart.  Without thinking about what is inside the sea he jumped into it along with mermaid.  He enjoyed until he reached the deep mid sea where in he found it’s the world for mermaids.  He is an odd man there.  He wanted to drink all the salt water to make the place for him.  When his stomach was full he learnt he neither could drink the entire sea nor take the mermaid to land, only one can survive.  It is water everywhere but not a drop of fresh water to drink.  Thirst made him to die for water.  To die in sleep is bliss but to sleep while throat hurts and longs for a drop of fresh water is painful.  In the urge of putting is thirst off he swam to the shore leaving mermaid in her place.  In love, the mermaid often tried to pull him into the sea forgetting it is not the place for him and he is not ready to die; mistake of the designer.

A minuscule lamp will lit is night but he neither had lamp nor strength to light.  The light has become a far destination and to walk to it, he thought, requires some help.  God helps that who are incapable of helping themselves and that is why he was left unattended by Him for a long time.   And when another flower withered on his cheeks a soft hands touched his forehead and wipe away his tears.  He refrained from opening his eyes and the urge to pull that hand closer and burry his head in her bosom raised high in his heart.  He thought the day has come, light has come, Sun has raised and darkness was swept away.  He pulled her hands to make her closer and open his eyes…

It was still dark.  No sign of light.  Sun has not shown up yet.  The expedition has not reached an oasis.  She has not come yet… Not yet…  

He again closed his eyes and a flower withered on the cotton.

the virtual reality...

courtesy - google

From a long distance, with a better eye sight, I saw a painting.  At the first sight I fell in love as its beauty saw me into pieces.  It’s an art painted by a veteran hands. The color selection was most perfect, the background was at its best, and the wardrobe to the character in the painting was ravishing.

This picture was of an ilk that which makes its creator to jump in vanity; a true masterpiece.  There is no match to this piece of wonder for there is no match for any masterpieces.  Every art is unique, incomparable as it is a broken part from the heart of its creator.  What you see in a wonder art is just not a creation but the urge and passion of the artist.

This painting glimmered from the distance I saw.  He has painted an angel which we only heard about, which we only read.  She is an angel without wings.  I could see her countenance flittering like a star in the dusk, her slender body illuminating like a planet in night; and as a picture as a whole emitting the effulgent light of the creator.

I walked closer to take a deep look at the painting.  O! My holy creator! It is not a painting but a statue of an angel.

…a statue of an angel; sculpted by the world’s most skilled sculptor.  From head to toe the creator imbibed all his passion. Also, I doubted: if he has created one such statue as a result of his obsession to see a real beauty.

From some roaming star in the space, a new born sun, the material for the statue was selected.  The ravishing hairs looked like a dense forest with a pavement in the middle lit with the light of the moon.  Those enchanting eyes mesmerized anybody that looked at, and hypnotized everyone to fall in love with this enchantress.  And that dimple in the cheek made anybody to slip and fell and mesmerizes to get up not from it.

They flamboyant smile she carried suffices any heart that were in search of happiness.  The lines on her lips said a short story of beauty and lust.  The carvings of her body, her slender physical appearance made any male a malevolent.  Words could explain those carvings, that aroma of romance around her, but it takes hundreds of years to finish writing.

…the toe was sculpted to make it stand on the water, to float, to walk over it.  The wardrobe added luminescence to the statue.  The color white of her dress reflected the light, her inner light.  I wondered: is it a statue of beauty or a broken piece of moon.

I neared a little to see the ravishing beauty closer.  My eyes got stuck to her, eyelids wanted to shut my eyes to protect it from dryness but I resisted closing to protecting my heart from dryness.

And finally, when I neared, she said “Hi”

Caught...

…caught in a dark dense forest, I stumbled to move to find the path to get away.  But the place was aromatic densely decorated with the fragrance of jasmine.  The forest allowed not the Sun light to peep-in making me perplex to realize whether it is a day or a night.  Dense populated trees looked shiny, flexible and smooth.  Is this a really a place or a dream, I wondered.  I ran through the gaps between the trees in the dark, none hurt me, and not even a piece of thorn I found on the way.  And finally I found a path in the middle of the forest which was little slippery.  The fragrance still disturbed me, hijacking me to an unknown place of romance.  In the fight between my mind to stay back and my brain to get out, my brain won.  I glided all the way on that path, the way shone like a road in the moon light.  With weight in heart, of leaving such a wonderful aromatic place, I walked out of that forest.  It was a day.  I turned back and saw the forest I came out from and awed to see all trees in black.  I started to walk.  The surface was smooth like silk, painted with the mixture of rose and gold.  Here and there I felt the tumor which shook my entire universe.  I was afraid not. Like a walk in the cloud I tread slowly.  I reached a point where there were full of loose soil in vermilion.  The fragrance of the soil gave a divine ecstasy. Both side of the place where I stood had tiny bushes, perfectly cut like a bow.  Little further I strolled; I saw a small peak which I need to claim.  It was not tough but lovely.

The way to the peak was silky, alike the same surface I walked.  I claimed and reached the top and turned back to see the copy of the universe, the camouflage of sky, at both the sides.  In the middle of both the copy of the universe it had a black whole which attracts the entire light around into it, even I felt like jumping into it.  Surprisingly it had a moving surface like a shutter which closes and opens once in a while to bring day and night.  O! What a design! What the greatness of the hands that made! I astonished.  I tuned around to look down from the top of the peak, as if to jump.  And what I saw had put me in trance.  It was a valley in rose shade, looked like a bed of rose flowers from the peak.  “O! Such a place! Let me die, I am going to jump, though it is going to hurt me” I though and jumped.  In next few seconds I was floating in the valley of rose jelly.  The softness carried me away to the heaven; the aroma aroused the hidden lust in my heart.  The urge to consume all the beauty of the valley pumped my blood fast.  All the malevolent thoughts peeped out from its grave in my mind. There were small ravines on the valley, I jumped in euphoria and played.

I know I could not stay there for long time as it might take my decorum in to task and suppress all my benevolence and make me all malevolent.  With no mood to get out, I strolled out of the place.  I reached a point from where I could see pits and mountains and I was awestruck to see the flexible trees in black, from the forest I came out, flowing over those pits and mountains.  It was all a dangerous abyss but the most lust kindling feel it gave.  To dive and die into that abyss will take me to heaven.  The mountains looked like a dormant volcano, as I could feel the heat of it from the place where I stood, ready to burst with lust any time. I closed my eyes for a second to make a decision either to dive or not.  Before I made a decision, before I opened my eyes I jumped into that abyss. 

When I was about to reach the abyss I was startled by a hand which shook my shoulders… 

writer's block...

It is always like this; what makes me write will be always the one that blocks me from writing.  I sit with my pen; scratch some lines on the empty white sheet in my journal.  Nothing comes to mind to write.  Not even a word.  I never run out of ideas to write but there are thousands all together, congested and culminated.  I sit before my technical chaos which holds alphabets in a zig-zag fashion and beg my thought process to create some words which I could type and form something which could be made available for others to read.  Along with the chaos; the comments from my beloveds to simplify my expressions, sits behind my shoulders and tap my head once in a while when I twist some sentence, unintentionally.

Along with the block there exist a feel which makes me sad adding fuel to my solitude.  To burst in to tears, roll over the floor and cry (now do not create another abbreviation ROFC) might not take long time for me but I want my craziness to live and die with me.  I want to burst into tears in my words, like a toddler who rolls over the floor and cry; I want to roll my pen over my journal and cry.  This is not something anew for me, for that case, not new for any writer.  There are many journals, blogs, books, and letters ends not just with ink dot but with colorless drop. The world of a writer is filled with funny solitude and fun filled sadness.  It is the world of insanity and craziness. He or she finds meaning jut not in the words or in between the lines but in the gap, the space, between the words and lines.  In the space between the lines there exists a writers’ heart, for the words come after he or she puts his or her thoughts into words but the space comes even before the words peeps out.

What makes me to write is always the one that blocks me to write.  I write just because I want to write.  Thousands of lines can be created with no meanings in it but not even a word without a piece of heart of a writer.  Thousands of lines may go in vain but once after the vent those lines give there comes just once sentence which might change the entire universe of at least one being.  I never question from where does the thought to write comes because when I tend to enquire it stops flowing. Simply, like the ground water exhausted when humans shoved deep down the earth to find more water.

Other than pride, love and prejudice there exist nothing to write.  And thousands of writers born on this planet wrote about all those things leaving nothing new for the future generations to write. But, every word of a writer is new as it holds the piece of his heart.  Things have to be retold, rewritten, and rephrased for the world to understand better though not the retold things but at least the predecessors. 

I knew, I never have got a stabilized and sanitized mind but when I stabilize my thoughts and sanitize my emotions then I get stuck in the writer’s block. It is like pushing someone in the mid sea that cannot swim though he might not sink but he can not survive.  To write everything should be looked at as divine.  Be it red lips of a woman or be it a blood oozing out from a wound it should be looked at as divine in order to write.  When that divineness drops I end up in the writer’s block.  When the haste for our creator and also the taste for the lust drop, I am entangled in the writer’s block.

When the solitude is removed, sadness is vanished; happiness is wiped out only the nothingness prevails where there is nothing to write or no more to write.

...the better half

A mild music mesmerized the evening, a soft and chilled breeze added romance to the moment.  It was about to rain, few drizzles here and there made the earth to revel its aromatic fragrance.  The twilight was painted in orange as if a kid played with colors on the wall.  The clouds were in process of merging with one another alike a just married couple, but the wind acted as the decorum to make them stay apart for little awhile.  The time was fast approaching for the day to embrace the night and night to glitter in shy but the clouds hid all the glittering of the night alike a woman hiding her shy when her man touches her; and in her ear whispers some lies.

He was holding his favorite book, which he was reading for the n^th time.  Leaning over the cushion, watching the fast approaching night through the window he was again falling in love with Selma Karmy.

“Is it again the Broken Wings” she asked him sitting next to him. 

“Yes, it suites the evening and this climate” he replied. 

“Yes, of course it suites the evening” she replied.

“…the only writer born in this world, Gibran. Nobody could make me realize the love I have inside me other than this book, Gibran, and…” he stopped

“…and?” she said

“You…” He said.

He opened his arms; she got closer to him and leaned back over his chest.  He held her tightly from behind, the book in his right hand and her hip in his left. 

“Shall we read together…?” he asked.

“I love to…” she replied.

They filled the evening romance with the essence of the book and the love it bestowed them.  His lips, in between the read, read her cheeks sometimes.

“Did you see the love of Selma Karmy in me…?” she asked.

“No” he replied.  She frowned slightly.

“I see the beauty of this book – Broken Wings – in you” he smiled. She closed her eyes and clutched his hand that was holding her on her hip.  A warm breeze crossed her cheeks and it rained there.  She kissed him back.

“What has changed after marriage or after I came in to your life?” she whispered.

“…many times I kissed this book, and after marriage it kissed me back” he said and kept his silence continue.  She understands his silence and in that silence they read the book, he read her, she read him.

After a deep long silence he whispered her name in her ear.  She said nothing.

“…how could you decipher the love in my silence? Many a time I was afraid that this strange silence of mine would irritate you, but you showed no sign of any such thing.  But I could not talk anything more than that my silence could not say. The warmness of your caress adds fuel to my silence and makes me go speechless.” He said

“ssshhhh” she sounded and turned her head to one side with her ear over his chest and said “don’t talk, I am listening to your heart”.

He closed the book and surfed over her abdomen. She clutched his shirt and said “May the third heart beat, by God’s grace, be heard very soon in our life” 

“I don’t quite understand how you could understand what I was thinking” He said

“My man, I am listening to your heart” she kissed him in his chest.

PS: Selma Karmy was the beloved of Kahlil Gibran, read "Broken Wings"  to get to know more about.

She, my mystery...

…deeply dipped in the wine, which was dipped in the earth for years, wandered the thoughts around her, around those sedative eyes, around those slippery wrinkles on her eye lids.  I astound, esoteric where those smiles along with which her lips tasted the honey secreted in her tongue. I admonish, sedative where those peers.  No, those are not just peers but that which tears the age like a spear.  I fear that I might find what is so special about her, while she was being around when the time moves forward and the space moves backward.

Image courtesy : http://designyoutrust.com/

Is she the Ishtar born again in this world! And am I the only one who realized the goddess of sacred love! Her cheeks moved up and down dancing for the acoustic of her laughter competing with my thoughts moving up and down to move closer.  And those throat sprinkles the holy water of Ishtar to say ‘you are not done with those eyes, before you move beyond to satiate your thirst’.  I like to disobey, she breathed in and out to which her bosom said yes and no.  Not just the flesh, but I saw beyond.  The drops of fears in her eyes, the feel of crush in her lips, lots of emotion in her laughter, need of warmth of love in her glimpse, marks of past in her bosom.  Not just the flesh, I saw something beyond. 

I neither fall in love nor believe in love but beyond the love, lust and crush there exist that which is above the so called God, for He couldn't have created it since He lives there, in that something above.  Like the something between the Sun and the light.  It is not the fire but something which keeps things in place.  Like the something between the statue of a goddess and the sculptors hand.  It is not his mind or thought for it could change once in a while but it is the godliness by which the statue was worshiped and known not by those who worship or by the one who sculpted.

She has that something in her body, in her soul, in her lust, in her eyes and in between her brows – the light of godliness.  Her light was so very bright that sometimes makes me keep looking at it and sometimes makes me turn away and it was the same light.  It is not caresses or embraces which will make someone understand her light but some other way that which will prove the God exist, will do.  Till then it is better that the flame grow.

Nothing...

 

Sitting before my laptop, in fact half lying before it, I am thinking what does this words goanna do to me and I just type nevertheless never worried about who is going to read because most of the prose I write I do read it not after I finish.  Now the room was all silence, just a light, and a fan over my head, the oozing noise of my little old air conditioner, me and my laptop.  That is it all I have here but from where comes all these words which make no sense at all if somebody as to read it for any use to them.  The only way to understand these words is to learn occultism and take me out of my body and get it to my brain and read all that I stored in my hippocampus.  I am here, writing just because I’m alive only those few minutes I write, all other minutes and all other time all my organs work, my heart pumps the blood, my blood travels all around my body, my brain continue to try remembering all that I could but I never had a thought that I am alive.  All other time I am just like any other social human beings on this earth who live because they are born and they are born because a couple was married and forced to live together.  But that is not what I am here to talk or write.

Then, what is there to write here? And the answer is probably nothing.  How could somebody write lines and lines when there is nothing to write? The answer is pretty straight forward, but before that there is another question.  Why does a baby laughs looking at a twinkle of a light, flash of a know face, kiss of a mother?  And when the answer to this question is answered there exist no question of “How can somebody write when there is nothing to write?”  One who writes with nothing in mind is somebody who is affected by all that he sees or all that he saw in his life.  Also he could be someone who is not affected at all with the happening of his life.  And I am a writer of both the type, slightly confused where do I fall.  Life detaches me from all that I think were divine and it even detaches me from all that were lustful and tasteful.  When ever I fall in love with these words, I write not more than a sentence and when ever I detach from what I love I feel like I have thousands of lines flowing from nowhere to write about that love.  If you reread the last sentence, it is not about something I love but it is about that love.  For a long time I thought what ever I like is love – the object – but there exist a pulling force that which detaches me from the object I love and I learnt that that the force that detaches is the love, and again I am slightly confused here.

I am neither an atheist nor a theist because both searched for God and concluded there on there own decision or with some scientific facts that somebody has proposed.  I believe not in the existence of God but a greater power than what we refer to God.  If you predict that I am going to talk about “Love” then I should say a “sorry” here.  The one who doubts whether God exist in the stone statue is a theist and one who believes it is just a stone, there could be no God, is an atheist.  I stay away from both because I see Godliness in that statue, the greater power that rules this world.  I see God in the eyes of the statue, in gesture of the statue, the strong built of the statue, in the brightness of the statue when it glows in light. I see God.  I see God in the space between the sculptor’s hand and the stone with which it is sculpted.  I believe that is where God exist.  If you do not see that you will either live the life of an atheist or a theist and never the life of that of a sculptor who could see something more than a God, the Godliness in a perfect disoriented stone.