Music and blah blah:)

And as you turn quiet, the time stops to move. The turquoise waves flowing frantically over the surface of the blue green oceans, become still. The facetious birds diving in the blueness of the sky turn into black dots of an unstilted awe, suspended in the timeless vacuums of the air. All dimensions, known-unknown, connecting each life to the other flowering one, begin to disintegrate. And soon, the world shrinks into a tiny lace of mist, that fits so well in the periphery between your two unmoving lips. And with every wisp of breath that I seize from that still air, un-sliced, unadulterated brimming with the numinous waves of your unfathomable, killing yet enchanting silence, a thousand lives are lived. A thousand loves, reborn.

4 hours of continuous music. craving for more. the unquenchable thirst. exactly what I was missing for so many days. whoever created music thanku!!

The poet described the winter sun as- "a sun that shines as if it doesn't mean it." Nothing More by Brian Andreas Often, I write all day long with white ink on white paper, late into the night, until it is all I can do to feel the letters curving to earth from the tip of the pen & then, I fall asleep. dreaming of running, or maybe driving in a car the color of water & I wake the next day remembering nothing & I gather the stack of paper & a pen of black on the desk in front of me & and the words begin to dance over the page like long legged insects across a still lake & the words in white whisper behind & underneath the new day If there is any secret to this life I live, this is it: the sound of what cannot be seen sings within everything that can. & there is nothing more to it than that.

The sky was roaring, the clouds were clashing with all their might and after some thunder and lightning, it has begun to pour. Only once in a while do we have such outbursts , when the smell of the earth can be described with the word 'petrichor', when sights and smells of monsoons come flooding back to mind, rainy holidays. There are drizzles, there is pitter-patter all throughout the day. My window is drenched, the lagoons don't stop running across the glass. As I look out, all I can see are winds of water lifting themselves from one roof to another, like vapours, like fog. ........ and that was just a dream. but a b'ful one:) loved it! rain.... come soon!

dil kyoon ye mera........ it's such a, such a, such a b'ful song. ---------------------------------------- -A letter to childhood days- Dear Childhood, You saw me off at Borders, then turned around and cycled away. It was summer of some year, many years ago. I stood at the beginning of a never ending life, waiting for it to end, wondering every morning how the riddles would get solved. The happiness was yours, of fresh life, of fresh herbs on your window-sill and fruit juices. Creative, energetic, whacky, you played with life, with every moment, on impulse. I had a long walk ahead of me. The book I bought that day lies in my cupboard of disposable books today. There was a time when I didn't know you. You lived with me and yet I didn't know you. And then one winter some years later we were alone, there were so many random things to talk about and we pondered through the night over the meanings of words, concepts and how they evolved in different settings. I hoped that n...

dry old paint scratched from the walls on the floor with footprints of the painter he painted the walls of the room he painted them blue, he painted them pink, no body knows what his art is the pink walls with blue borders the flawless smoothness, the fineness of his work and those drops of paint which were dribbling over the floor and over the windowpane his hands and clothes the big blots of paint all over them it was art art of a child mistakes of a master so random, so random these footprints makes no sense, have no pattern, are so haphazard and yet beautiful in their own way just like life is random beautiful .

Once upon a time, I used to write and now.. All that I want to do right now is whine over Why doesn't it rain? Why doesn't it rain when I crave for it. It seems like eons since I had felt those drops over my face and rejoiced at the blessings of God. I almost feel wistful if I call at home and get to hear "It's raining!" Rain, Dear Rain, Please please come soon. ..................... I realized during my train journey back to ahmedabad that for the past couple of months, I have become what I was not. I am not sure of the reasons behind it but I know it must be changed. I have seen myself getting irritated just too quickly and often. I like the people I like and I dislike the people I dislike. It's zero or one. Black or white for me. But here, things are so different. People are not what they look like and what they are is hard to figure out. These gray shades have never been my cup of tea. Anyhow, what I need to rectify is- I need to "accept" everyth...