The light was
consistently flickering on the walls. Like my thoughts making huge heaves and
convulsions, but as quietly as “drops on disc of snow”. The sun shines through
almost all the frames of The Tree Of Life.
I watch it and watch it and the rays of beauty absorbed in those scenes, the
whispers, the divinity, the sublimity and the quest- all have made me so
insatiable- the more I watch the more I want to watch. Again and again. The
ripples on my soul turn into whirls of rapture- everything in it is graceful
and blissful, enlivening like the sun beams showering its trance all over us.
Nature- “It finds reasons to be unhappy- when all the world is shining around
it-when love is smiling through all things- it taught us that no one who loves
the way of grace comes to a bad end.” Am
I in favour of grace or nature? What resides in me? Grace or
nature? What do I want to reside? Grace or nature? Don’t I constantly want to please myself and
get others to please me too? Don’t I find reasons to be unhappy when the world
is shining and love is smiling through all things? Precariously in an edge my
melancholy soils everything that is fair.
Aren’t I nature? And why did I
often search for “grace” in “nature”?
“When
you become old, with grey hair and shrunken skin, when you become dreadfully
alone, will you come to me?....If not now!” I called it a vicious wish to make
my friend. Pernicious was your desire to
see me alone all the time. Unless you deceive me I cannot come to you. But
there lies the true horror. Deception is unknown to you. Learn it. Try it. Be
it. There is only place for “images” in this world. “Whatever comes I will be
true to you!” What a dreadful plan! I lie down in the dark and lie about my own
lies. Where is the tree I have been looking forward to be blossomed in the
spring? I lied to you that it was fallen in the last rain. You have never asked
me for the truth. Ever crossed me for the lies. What is left to be rusted long
ago cannot regain its grace if the abandonment was for comfort and survival.
The thoughts get
departed as withered flowers. Words like tiny souls inside me spread their wings
like cute cherubs with mischievous eyes hiding behind their palms. Words,
words, words, rhyming, praising, loving, paining, blooming my withering
flowers. My gentle antique heart, yellowed and distant, gazes at the rarity of
your sustained fairness and silence. I searched for “anything that can blow
your candles out”.
Unknot
me from you
You
gracious with your silence in between
Is too
distinct from mine.
Yours
is grace
Mine
nature.
Unknot me from
your eyes. Its contentment has made my barrenness “raven black”. You have
eclipsed my silver sense. I am tired of convincing myself of my seeming zest
and substance, which in actuality decayed and cankered when I am alone. It’s as
if I am ingeniously crafted to be frozen and numb when I am bereft of you. My
liberty is no longer my liberty. My pain no longer mine. It’s merged with you,
words slippery and tentative. My frowns have more curves and twists when there
is the slightest fatigue from your part. It’s as if I live only in words. Your
heaviness lightens my heart. Purges my soul.
Saturates my weary days. What am I without you? I want to get
disappeared in you. “Thaw and resolve” in you. What if I be a word? Or a string
of it, poetry from a most “comprehensive organic soul”, or a slice of sublime
prose from a monologue, a soliloquy. Or a shocking metaphor. Or a rhyming couplet. Or a sonnet. My
ambiguity then to be dissected, reread, misinterpreted and reinterpreted, for
centuries. For me your end is “Truth and beauty’s doom and date”. For me you
are the grace that heats my nature enough to melt it.
PS: It took such
a long time to resume my scribbles. Words flickered and frosted within me. Some
bouncing on the surface with a buoyancy I never felt before. All I could see
was the purples blurring my sight. Purple wings, purple petals, purple walls,
purple lights. I rubbed my eyes. The purple memories smeared on my lashes,
mixed with tears, purple beads trickled down my cheeks. And there was purple
birds fluttering on my throat. There is no breath. Only the whoosh of flights
and the surmounting letters dismembering my scruples. And what it left is a
fist of sting with a feeble gasp, to be rasped at my next resumption:)
