Connecting the Dots

My truth is not your truth

Your reality isn’t my reality

There are numerous versions

Of the very same thing

Like the bright specks

On a clear night sky

A canvas of nothingness

Waiting for each one of us

To conjure!

To connect!

And come up with a pattern

Oh the joy of creating meaning!

A constellation of our own 

My Umbrella named Luminous

So it’s late in the night, as usual dogs are howling away to glory! Is it full moon today? I don’t know. It has been a while since I looked up at the sky; too busy clearing and emptying the clouds that surround in my life. Which reminds me of this long forgotten cartoon called Oswald. Now when I look back I find the whole concept so amusing yet so profound. We all have this cloud that moves along with us wherever we go. No matter what we do it just follows us. The more we run away the more it troubles us. It sure is intimidating initially, creating thunders deep in your bosom. Most of us seek the help of the umbrella, when the clouds burst and create a wrath like havoc. While some others brave the rains by themselves. I am an umbrella seeker. The shelter of this commonly used thing is undoubtedly comforting. The thing that I really like about them is they are really handy and are open to all your worries and at the end when they do bid adieu until next time, they do make sure that the silver linings are visible.

writer's blues

So I sit down to write and I’m blank. But the desire to write remains. Ted Hughes’ “Thought Fox” suddenly comes to my mind, and I glance through my previous writings. I cringe at the thought of not being able to write anymore. I wonder if anybody out there feels the same and that’s when I vaguely remember the interview of either Ruskin bond or Jeffrey archer of which I’m not sure but they expressed their fears of not being able to write anymore.  There is a wave of re assurance in my mind now. But the ghost of writing still haunts my grey matter nevertheless. This is the time when a writer goes into the self doubt mode. Not that I am an established writer, probably I don’t even deserve to be called a writer but I write and that’s what writers essentially do. The definition of a writer can be looked into some other time but my major concern now is the apparent dearth of topics to write about. This apparent dearth equals to a feeling of death of creativity. The feeling increases when you seem to come across bundles of creativity around. I would not say there is nothing to write about but probably there are too many things being written that leaves me feeling how is my opinion going to matter anyway?  Even with the slithering sinister like cynicism, one does not give up. Its only when the writer’s block is overcome can we say that a writer has proved her mettle. So here it is *wink* 

The Monotony

The creaking noise of the fan

Pervading the stillness

Of the sultry sluggish summer afternoon

The sun shining at its peak

Reflecting the leafy shadow on my cheek

As I sit by the window

Contemplating the monotony

While the balmy breeze

Comforts my glistening sweat

I summon my thoughts

I reckon my memories

Will I ever break the monotony?

I confront, cascade and escape

But it still comes back to me

As if it was meant to be

I give up and reconcile

Guess we all do

And seek harmony

In the good old monotony.

MIRAGE

Disillusioned by dreams

Disoriented in reality

I often find none but myself

Trying to find meaning in the maze I dwell in

Introspecting and interrogating

The very purpose of life

Having begun this quest long before

I wonder if I have a companion

Maybe there is no answer

Or is the answer lying within me?

Sadly one shall never know

I realize my significant insignificance

Thus I abide with the language of the world

That is spoken and understood in terms of-

Creation, maintenance and disappearance

There is never a perfect end

But only a pause

Leaving you feeling a bit stagnant

Rather poignant!

Soon enough we seek a new beginning

The eternal cycle continuing

Creating, maintaining and disappearing

Like a mirage!!

A Face in every Phase

Numerous faces I see daily

Each face has its own story

Millions of faces going through unique phases

What they think that is distinct

Is actually playing on everybody’s instinct

Funny is the way

How we carry our social interplay

Interweaving each other’s history and mystery

Your life becoming as much a part of mine

Lasting for a moment or stretching until a lifetime

Some faces easy to forget

While others bring regret

Each to its own, nothing to disown

Because all those faces and all those stories

Are the myriad beads and patterns

Of the kaleidoscopic journey which we all embark on

MISTY MORNING

I wake up to a misty morning

Not that I am an early bird

But it felt as though the mist

Was waiting for me

The warmth of the sun

Trying to embrace me

Gently maneuvering its way

Through the dense canopy above me

I have walked this route many a times

Always in a hurry

Because the time is ticking

Now I enter a world of timelessness

Overlooking the maddening chaos

That passes by me

I stand here in stillness

For things may come and things may go

But not the clear blue sky,

The mist, the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze