...these silver lines, travel from my thoughts to yours, wavering, floating like spirits dancing...

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Mozart and Beethoven are playing one after the other. The lights are dim in the room. The silence is broken by music and conversation alternately. One side of the room has a shelf lined with books from top to bottom. The coffee's just the right taste and flavour in my mouth, while outside a slight breeze is swaying the trees in the garden outside. There is a screen door through which the city sounds drift in every now and then. A car screeching loudly. An ambulance far in the distance, the alarm growing fainter by the second. Sometimes, I catch the sound of a young child crying somewhere and the clank of metal cutlery falling to the floor, then I hear a mother comforting the crying child. But the city sounds are muffled by the symphonies of the old geniuses of music.

To be blind and be able to create such beauty. To be deaf and still be able to create perfection.

The lights in the room dim even lower as I look at my environs. The room in simple yet functional. My eyes pass over small statues made of steel, of ancient soldiers and Greek philosophers. Books lie on a bedside table, their covers and titles enchanting me like all unread books do at first glances. Notebooks with thick red binding, big and thick, lie on the worktable. A page lies here and there. Some articles of clothing shrugged off and thrown casually as in a rush. A cloth hanger or two. A neutrogena oil-free moisturizer stands neatly on the worktable with the thick red bound notebooks.

A warm, dark blanket lies folded on the bed and I catch a glimpse of a shoe peeking from underneath the bed.

My coffee's almost finished and I'm lost in the symphony, wishing it never to end, to forever keep playing like this. To forevermake this moment last. To forever keep this magic. There are stories to be told in each tune and every melody has a tale. Every note has a history and it takes you back to the simpler times.

But right now all they do is add magic and beauty to the night.

The wind has picked up outside and I see thick grey-black clouds far in the distance. It might rain but if the wind's stronger it might take the clouds and disperse them.

Tonight, I don't wish for it to rain. The wind is perfect acompaniment to the old music - the powerful rythms, that gusto, that slow building tempo, driving towards that perfect moment of cresendo and climax.

Scattered Wings

The 28 wings still lie scattered
on the tiled floor
Wait, there's 29 - and there - that's 30.
I know because I counted
twice and thrice just to be sure.
They're tiny, these small long wings
Yellowish and frail
and newly disjointed from
tiny bodies of lost souls.
Funny, that disjointedness.
Once, one entity,
now, who knows?

Taking risks

Life is ever-changing, ever-moving, spinning like a pinwheel, never the same, always turning upside down. When you least expect it, life gives you lessons to learn and a chance to open new doors and explore unknown territories. Uncharted lands which look difficult and rocky - but something about them seems right - just right.

At the end of the day, all that matters is whether you're willing to take risks. Take risks and know that something good will come out of them. Take risks for things that seem to matter. Take risks for the one you love. Take risks for your love. Take risks because you can love. Because you can love. And human beings have to take risks.

Speak not...

Speak not of your enchanted heart,
Lest the vines curl and wrap themselves
around my own.
These thorns are deeper than they seem.
Love, love is not blind
though cupid might be.
So speak not of your fevered heart
My own has so much to unfold.


Love is a poison, brimming with danger
It's a tunnel of red lights
where cars speed through
in the late hours of the night.
And quiet, like the sound of a dandelion
falling in a field of green plains...