Question-Answers

To hold on to nothing and fall deep into yourself is your mission - the child told itself as he walked trough the city that was borne out of the fantasies of innocent imagination.

The clean slate reflects lines that mean something but never seem to shed light on that something. Fallen pieces from the worlds around make the mind grow into a pod while the birds in the sky and the waves of the sea speak to each other about secrets yet unknown.

For however much time the child lay still, it couldn't help to wonder about things that have been and the things that could be.

Working out the riddles of paths that laid down the myths and facts entwined into a puzzle that never seemed soluble.

Disintegrated artifacts remained the only clues through which the creatures of these worlds deciphered the meaning of their own selves and their lives. Meanwhile, the world changed again to only leave behind a pattern of stories partly finished.

Few things grow as much as the thoughts about trees, branches and cracks in dry earth. few things remain constant like the turbulent oceans and the clouds in clear skies.

As time went by, the fantasies came real. Somehow the picture didn't fit well and more work was yet to be done. He was so tired. He could give up any moment only if he knew what would be so worth it.

Leaving behind the days and the nights and the loves of yesterday the approach became clear - life happened with or without you.

A smile faded the subtle tears that ran across the skin worn out by the clocks and calenders.

The cubicles always rearranged into something else but remained a constant reminder of the same old geometry - begging for the curves from different dimensions.

These affairs with reality had never brought him close but only closer.
But closer to what???

And as life went on,the people and the events around seemed unnecessary to take in.
All that was needed was within.

Stop by in frustrated contemplation

Time passes in irrelevant motions
the eyes on this side listen to jazzy notions
and the sounds of the sax ebb and flow
in my mind I suspect there're some things that I know

where time comes from
and from where come I?
we are all in this together
like the clouds in the sky.

Below the levels
of worlds in parallel
come ideas and pictures
and scriptures and gospels

turn around this ground
in sometime I wonder
where does my mind wander
what lies asunder

Above the sound
the notes flow alone
random and mischievousness
colored off tone

please don't shout
or go out to the ghosts
will we place our bets
on haunted old posts?

Love ya...
and thanks for stopping by!

Some Times

Through the invention of the word the thought missed the point that its existence was to be and not to assume the attire of symbols that were eventually clad by its confusing sense of identity.
Eons and eons passed before the magical dance of illusory particles gave way to a sequence of limitations through which the primordial ideas flowed like water through a stream of troubles, waves, and ripples.
After a while the dried up instances of a seasonal phase sunk the world of created visions and dissolved the background into a purposeless noise of unsurpassed magic.

How will you come to terms with this fabric then?

And what about that?

Here we seem to dabble in war and peace while sorrow and bliss elude us in a way that feels strangely familiar.
Apparently a deja vu exploded before this moment.
The future holds a secret that we create as we close in on it.
It claims to be an elusive quest begging for a change.

How is it then that this unique moment that we experienced with such convoluted attachment was borne out of chance events extending back into eternal space?

someones hell is your heaven
sometimes you are that someone
above the clouds a thought whimpers
but the sky is constant to the chosen one

In a race you jump the gun with a subconscious intent to win the finish line.
Although success is guaranteed in such a ploy you didn't play the game that offered its joys: the medals bronze, silver and gold - a certain place on a geometric pedestal.
The symbols are striking!
The depth of our struggles is unquestionable.
We drive to survive but when it comes down to it we are merely living.

The mind is locked in a body that dies.
The body describes the mind that it ties.

How is it then that this unique thought scintillates with detachment?

Someone spoke
like a loudmouthed bloke
trying to win the fates
while the friends and foes
dragged to the shores
treasures from an ancient cave

Opened beyond the words of swords
the blood and water merged with the gods.
Dramatic events twisted our worlds
the ultimate questions washed to the core.

Before the message in a bottle was read
the light in the eyes began to fade.
The sounds that are white were all that remained
before you could grasp it had all re-arranged.

Touch the tip of my imaginary finger
kiss my lips when you cease to linger
our souls were matched before we met
I am waiting for you beyond these dangers.

some times you are some one.
.

Instant Gratification

It was the dead past
re casted into dreams
packed and sold
as brand new things

surprisingly old
un replaceable thoughts
were ideas and imaginations
of visions that we'd sought

blue and true to
a drifting soul
the thoughts re capture
a fleeting goal

slipping away
on thinning ice
the surface is cool
in slight disguise

before the door
opens no more
The bird flies away
into recurring shores

We wish they were here
who are here no more
but before they speak
we leave the icy floor

somewhere perched
up and above
the blue bird sings
the songs of the dove

freedom on its mind
its virtual wings rewind
to a time that was gone
but was hardly left behind

we are never really lost
we are always on a quest
you will learn if you listen
at times silence is best

Innocent wars

Except
that is not this
and
this is not that.

The questions survived the tests of terror and the questions remained floating in the air of oblivious disguise forever.
The pretence of the relative blood was getting warmer by the years.
The words on the pages were making new sense everyday.
In every way our minds are growing and our souls are reaching out to ourselves through people, thoughts, and plays.

A wonderful painting is the result of the feeling in your fingers. If you have the feeling of the thickness of the ink in your brush, the painting is already there before you paint. When you dip your brush into the ink you already know the result of your drawing, or else you cannot paint. So before you do something, "being" is there, the result is there. Even though you look as if you were sitting quietly, all your activity, past and present, is included, and the result of your sitting is also already there. - D.T. Suzuki

So much in a name.
So much in a series of letters, words and syntax.
So much in a signature and on a screen.

Infinity had simply shied away to the depths of sincerity.
The awareness of a rock pressed hard against a headache was mounting like a fountain frying through the shadows of duplicate hells.

The schizophrenic who went to heaven freaked out coz he hallucinated that the angels were demons with lightening in their bites and chaos in their voice.
Needless to say that he was in deep hell!

Water is thinner than blood, but blood is made of water.
Water wipes the fire off the first lethal pain that was suffered by the martyrs who died in somewhat vain by the blade of an eagles beak.
Bound by the stone, again and again, the egos of history rave and rage till the wonderful caricatures begin to play mayhem in the subtle silence of such mental caves.

The darkness is always a picture of mystery, a canvas of possibility, a fertile ground for bright creativity.

Through thick and thin everything was in place but the next moment made a slight change and the place was rearranged
yet again.
Believe it to be an idea granted from above the surface of the bottomless pit where demons and gods play whose line is it anyway?

Riding through the desolate landscape of Texas a thought comes to any lazy mind in a car. What do these cows think when they graze the grass on the other side of the fence? Colorblind as they are, do they care or are they just too nonchalant by nature?
Is it so desperately cool to be bovine?

The next item on the dish was a steak and some peanut sauce.

How wonderful is the sky when it reveals to the eyes a minuteness so beyond description that silence alone - that too the pin drop kind - can describe with elegance the inverted depth of truth.

A smiling cloud looked beneath.
Light was its soul and heavy were its days.
The rain and the storm played and danced like the siblings of a shy couple who had never known pain.

If an evening disappears like this I will fade along with you.