Author Archive for agentm

Tears are stuck somewhere behind the eyes; formed, yet a brickish block stops it from reaching its birth. Wants to curl up and sleep, to escape, yet sleep horrifies – like before, like through.

It arrives, with a veil that gently moves in between sight and sight’s prey. With grace of love, it sifts what is seen, heard, smelt, tasted, and felt. With it comes the belief of its story, its narration of reality; so much, that it cannot be unbelieved.

That cinematographer arrives silently… whether it is to sleep, eat, or meet. Knowing the other story, and having believedit once, does no givance to the omnipotent this. This omniscient this.

Fight, for that is all that human intellect ’til now says… Fights are won, fights are lost. No pride of the glory, no paths in sight. Definitely no warrior’s delight.

Yearning to be alone, to push forth the tears. Yet yearning for some one to hold, some one to lead, help..

And beyond everything, to give up; to give in to death…

Oh sweet saviour, come to me,
Speak words of wisdom; take me.

Once this person, to whom i had grown close as an admirer, and i were sharing a moment of falling in love with a display of warm ecstasy of the evening sky. Then he told me, “Nature paints the most beautiful of pictures every day, but sadly we fail to see.”

i remember you, dear friend, as i behold the evening sky even today. i watch every now and then, and each of those nows and thens i wonder, why is it that we all fail to see. And suddenly i’m thrown into a busy junction of thought-trains, one hitting me after the other, taking me far far away from the beautiful paintings.

That person was a prodigy. A genius at a talent; capable of effortlessly drawing rapture of folks who happen to be around him as he goes into his dance. Lonely, the both of us found company in each other to be lonely, and to bow before our Mother. In half a year, they had gotten hold of him: the essence of tobacco, and the falsettos of alcohol. In a year, i could barely recognise him, and i doubt that he ended the year lonelier than he started off.

*

The paintings drawn by our Mother still holds me in rapture, even if only for a few moments that i drift in air in her twirling hands, before i fall into one of those trains.