Miracle...

courtesy : 123rf.com

My will is to write on what I am willing to write.  I force not my fingers to write the words I do not want to read.  I force not my brain to think the sentence just to seduce the eyes that is going to read.  I write because I do not do any meditation.  The knowledge of stopping my mind to think is something I have not been taught.  I decided to teach it myself – I write.  I think of writing so that I think not of anything else.  I look at every letter as a girl sometime, as a child sometime, as a cloud, as a star, as a new born, as a teacher and what not.  Only few times I looked those words I write as words.  Never my mind said I am running out of words because all that it was filled with is just words, all that I didn’t recite.  More than the conversation with my fellow humans I converse with my mind, I watch and it dictates.  Not all time it is my dictator sometimes I proclaim the dictatorship and enjoy the difference of opinion between me and my mind.  I love when it disobeys me. When the thoughts are like slow moving water I stop it with a dam built inside and redirect it to the canals to flow through.  Not all time it is possible that the water flows in tranquil sometimes it rains heavily and the water rushes to the dam with its full force.  The use of cannels makes no sense then; it overflows thus avoiding the wreckage in the dam. What makes one to write is a mystery; the divine code of secret.  When that code is broken and the secret is revealed then that is the day of books; no more books will be published.  Not to all the eyes these are words but to the few, may be to the many, this is just the permutation and combination of words.  Those are the beautiful minds that calculate searches and researches.  For few these letters jumbled in order makes all sense.  They read it with their eyes but what they look at is not the words but the heart of the finger that wrote.  Those were the beautiful hearts. They read, smile and cry at the words for they know under what emotions those words are knitted.  They know under what pain those mistake in the sentences are made.  To write is not an art but a science.  The science of stopping the mind to think, the science of redirecting the thoughts to the way the heart like to flow.  To read is not a science but an art of deciphering the heart of the writer and the art of understanding the pain of the others wounds. It is the art of falling in love with the one that has never ever has appeared before their eyes, never ever spoke into their ears; the real love that everyone is foreseeing for; the unconditional love.  Till that unconditional, unbridled love exists in this planet there will be hands that knit the letters into words then into sentence in turn into book that warms the eyes of the readers. What really is a miracle; the rain of gold from the sky or the sprinkles of water? Tons of gold dropping from the sky will only create fear in the hearts but the rain brings happiness.  Is it not the rain a miracle!  I was searching for bigger things, a great miracle to happen so that I could pen down until I saw the little finger of a girl standing before me.  I could look at nothing else but her finger in her foot; so beautifully sculpted.  I thought it was a tiny finger but the time I took to adore the sculpture made me realize that it is of the size of this universe.  The nail it held were polished and decorated and at the tip of the nail as grown after the coloring so that it looked like a crown of a princess. She moved it like a wand putting me in trance.  The spell that that finger spelled made me stay awake but in a mesmerizing sleep that nothing else around me existed.  Could a little finger can make put me in such a state! I then realized, understood the meaning of the words miracle.  There exist no miracle in the air, it is inside.  Sometimes a little wand like her finger puts spells to provoke it. The ups and downs of those little finger where the speed breakers stopping my eyes to go up or down; mesmerization at its height. Slowly the wand moved from its position and came closer to me.  I don't want it to move for I might wake up from the trance and face the real world.  But it moved, came closer to me, crossed passing me and disappeared. Nothing could explain that enchanting finger than the words; thus it is here. 

Unreachable...

courtesy : Pintrest.com

I could near her not though she is not standing at longer distance from me. She stood by the shore of a mighty sea. Like those waves from the ocean that come touches and goes back my unbridled love waves to her and comes back but touches her not. Not one I have seen in my life that of the girl that stood mesmerizing the ocean with her legs.  I could call her an angel but I would not do for she is above that.  There is nothing to worship in her for she is the worship of God himself.  It has become natural to become unnatural and artificial but to be naturally natural is why we are made for. Going against the law of the commune is accepted for the dogmas are made for the arrows that go in the direction of few pointed fingers.  Those fingers do not want any arrow to go in a different direction.  Those were the dogmas which act as a spell from the dark evil.  Even the dark evils are corrupted now and thus knowing not either to do wrong or stay quiet they left their wands in the hands of human beings.

She stood by the shore.  The waves that touches the feminine’s feet were to wash the camouflages thus to unveil the femininity. Terribly it failed for the roots of that femininity was corrupted.  But when it touched the feet of the woman that stood by the shore it cleansed the sanity of the ocean.  The hot day turned to cool twilight the sky bored its own face removing the mask of the light.  The breeze crawled on to her face like a baby crawling to its mother.  Nature knows the nature.

Not in the wardrobes her femininity exists nor in her walk it could persist.  It is in her eyes.  She knows how to look at a man as a man, know how to smile at someone without bringing any lust in their heart.  She has a rich aura that protects her from the eyes of the demons.  Acoustic of her voice could win the softest sounding lyre of this planet; no music could be compared for it is the hymn composed by the divine itself. Once it was a rarity that some creatures goes against the nature and dwells in the artificiality but now it is a rarity that some beautiful creation walks, smiles and lives the life of natures benevolence.  She is one such creation, the beautiful, made by divinity alike every other creation but decided to perceive the femininity that of the nature.

It hurts the mother earth when some so called feminine walks with their spikes in legs, intoxicates the air that we breathe with the chemicals they apply. Few, with there eyes, provokes everything that was hidden in the heart other than love of those who encounters. Not the mistake of the creator, not the mistake of the creation too but the malevolence of the material world. Even the purest of the pure milk is contaminated with the slow poison thus making more evil and gaining more materials.

The one I saw watching the ocean with love and compassion was the one those evil hands could corrupt not for she is the abundance of purity; such amount of evil is yet not found to contaminate it. She is a flower that has the perfume by its nature, a vain that has grown bearing flowers, a tender grass that drinks the dew drops in the night and waits for the sun to flourish it.  To hold such a flower in hands and cherish just one day and get back to the universal soul will be the dream of any.  To live in the flamboyance of femininity and make some real meaning to the days we live is any one’s longing; mine too.

I wanted to take that flower in my hand and feel the aroma of freshness, to feel the femininity in real, to realize the goddess of love that literature spoke. But there were few drops of poison spread in my hands also to pluck the beautiful flower and hold it in hand to dry is something for which my heart says no.

She is the epitome of the gender of love, the true femininity.  Now I remember reading somewhere “they are not equal to men! But above them”