The day he died

Suffering it is, of the kind that he does not know. He sits and watches the eyes, of the passengers on this planet called Earth. He wonders what makes the journey so important when it ends at the end of the day. He blinks a little to find out the Earth a place of sadness under the bushel. Pain he sees in the eyes of those, whom he knows not. His eyes reflect what is there with in . He does not blinks, he wants to see what is there in the eye. Can he see, with his eyes close? Can he smell with his nose blocked? Can he touch with his limbs lost? He wonders why the pain moves him so? He wonders what makes him cry, why is there a yearning in his heart? Will he not be heard? Will Nature be silent when he cries to see the pain that is there in him?

On the peculiarity of his mind

He sits straight observing the apparatus called his mind. He knocks it off, yet it comes back on its own. Wonders how he manages to go through, life with an apparatus as unreliable as his mind. It knows no logic, it knows no sense a bundle of contradiction, created out of his world that is not true for the first. Glorifies sorrows, when there are none, laments over joy, when there is none. What indeed was the thought, that created the mind? How was it when Man was born, with no one to guide to make the mind the cesspool of contradiction? Alas, if he knew the way the mind worked if he knew how it began

On his Dervish

Gone are the days when music made him realise the way of tune. It is now the food for his Dervish. His feet might not move, but the slow and ethereal strains, mesmerizes his soul. The Dervish he knows will come and transmit the joy eternal, yet he knows that he has to wait. The highs and the lows they go hand in hand, with the way his life goes, the way his breath goes. Yet, he knows the Dervish is beyond all those.

What calms his soul? Is his soul troubled? Is that the question that he asks? What makes his soul, swim in the pool of fire? Or is the pool the real nature of his soul? He yearns for the touch divine, yet he knows without the right he can't go to the shores? What prevents him from going to the shore? What prevents his music from reaching his soul?

Has he reached? Has he gone astray? Who knows? Who shall ever know? For his dervish is what he looks for

On his melancholy

Its the season when the Sun reaches its peak and brightens up the Earth. Sunny, with a note of melancholia, around, is what winter is for him. The tune of melancholia is strong yet, he knows not why it bothers him so.

Is it his creation? He knows the mind, creates the daughters of Mara, and he wants to touch the ground. But, he is not able to do so. What does his melancholia mean to him? Its like the warm sunny days, which fail to warm you up in the long run. It talks of the cold nights, that come and make you shiver. The chill that sets in is of the morning sun, which he understands not. He knows the cause, may be he does not want to know it.. but he is scared to comprehend it He knows not, the way the sun is to turn, yet he wishes the morning depression that he suffers from.

Is he addicted to his sadness? Has that become a habit with him? He knows that he can fight it and he will do so? But yes, he misses the warmth that he had experienced long back

On his loneliness

Days that end into nights of restless sleeps, that is what his loneliness is to him. He knows not, what strains of melancholy that plays in his mind, but yes his heart moves to hear and feel the music, which he knows not.

There were days, when the eyes, had the power to weave his own world, but now, he dreads the sights that creep up in front of his eyes. A contorted world it has created, with shadows and no lights, to show him his fears and his way of the world. Yes, the frights are scary, but he knows they are not real. The mind with its instruments are out, they resent the fact that they are recognised by him, yet he knows he has to grin and bear.

His eyes, are calm, he knows for sure, the storms are surreal. His zazen has taught him the way to be calm, but the treacherous mind is out to fight. It creates the ways that things are meant to be, but who cares?

Let the storms come, let them break him to pieces, yet he will stand tall, bcoz he has killed his heart has stopped the fountain of emotions that caused him trouble. Now this ode to him, is for his loneliness.

China, Bangalore and then where to?

Thank God I was able to reclaim my blog... really it is such a painful thing trying to post on your own blog and getting redirected to things you cant make head or tail of!
Anyways as of today, things appear to be fine and the man in China seems to be taken  by things which are not really what they appear to be. Just hope things go good