The sky blackened...

The sky blackened,

The rain fell,

Our bodies slackened:

We were in a spell.

The wind-swept rain sprayed on to us

And the dullest of thoughts were cleansed.

In this coolness of ambience

And the warmth of our friendship

The weariness of ambition was drained

In the sewer of oblivion, and all that settled

On our hearts was the gladness of existence,

The gratitude of this perception invaded by heaven,

Of the gift of consciousness to feel this and feel

Nothing else: no want, no grudge, no property,

No debt, no height, no depth; nothing;

The gift of wanting nothing but this.

The trunk is too large...

The trunk is too large for embraces,

The sea too large for a swim.

Eternity mocks the clock as it races.

Our life too real for our whims.

What is a footprint on a snow clad berg

Many times larger than the largest?

A mark that changes

The face of infinity.

What is life?

A grain on the endless beach,

That mountain-peak beyond our reach.

But the omni does not contempt.

It knows well that a grain in the eye

Is worth all on the beach.

And so he says, 'Oh brother,

I have so much, yet I'm not full; while you complete in yourself.

I'll be less if you left me, but you not less nor more.'

Illusioned

We used to run, just for the fun of it. We would chase each other, run for the hill top. Then, one day, someone drew a line on the hill top and offered something for the fastest runner among us. Material was involved, and what was once friendly sport, now became a competition. We had established occupations so that we could provide each other with a variety of things. Then, one day, a tendency to collect as much money as possible became THE purpose of life. Occupations also became competitions, businesses; careers.

Unmasked

Passing poles, passing faces, past people, his eyes did not move in his sockets. His was an unsettling meditation, his was a calm face. Behind the indifferent countenance, there's a constant tumult as of gusty winds and wavering sea on a palsy ship, toying with its pathetic efforts to hold up. Distraction offers its hand. Who can refuse? He's taken on the ride as gently as would betoken royalty. He's flung out in the world of reality as the foul bones out the kitchen which invite only the drooling dogs.

If

If you can make loneliness your company

And solitude your chum,

If you can create your own joy

When you are provided none,

If you can pick good times and bad

And make a cocktail, and tasting it say

It’s the best you ever had,

Yours is the world in spirit and in heart,

And be it known: Yours is a soul

Without an end or a start.

The torn bag

The spacious apartment gave him more than all the pleasure he had ever wished for; it was more than he could take in his bag of desires; so the bag tore owing to the weight, and he could never have enough after that. Whatever he filled stayed for a moment and fell through. There was a loss of containment or contentment. He was left alone with his grief when he could not control his material longing, his hunger. It was worst when he could see everything happening to him and yet was not able to control it. He was possessed. It was just a matter of time when oblivion crept in and swallowed the jocund playfulness of the spirit. The carefree dancing of the spirit was suppressed and what remained of him now was a mechanical will-less corpse with a bridled vision of material prosperity that claimed to be alive. It was just a matter of time when what had begun as an unpleasant and unwanted infusion of ambitions transformed into a cold vengeance towards the world for the loss of the self. His laugh was now mocking but low, his eyes piercing but unblinking, his hands unwavering but cold, his movements unclumsy but without life. He was now a man devoid of his own will and slave to the society’s.