Tuesday, August 22

Centuries of Mystery Particles, 300th post

The History

The old town came back to life. Streetlights flickered one by one, switched on by some stranger in a wooden building in the outskirts of the town. Then he sat down and continued listening to his transistor box churning our melodies of the fifties and sixties. Some say that was the real golden age of music, where the soul emanate with expression and truth. Music built lives and spirits. Staggering ages and amazing people where born yesterday. In another part of the town, children were playing hide and seek among the Japanese pill boxes. These concrete installation looked like doomsday relics. Overlooking the great plains, reminiscent of the golden Serengeti, but no wilderbeast were running rampages here. Above in the distant skies rain clouds; a girl traced her fingers, slowly grasping and molding the melting clouds. Her red dress swayed with the wind, near her on the bench her mother slowly pouring some milk into a plastic cup. New age wonders, plastic cups and future dreams. She would one day become a climate scientist, jetsetting around the world inspiring others to come up strong, just like her. He mother will live a happy life in a average sized room at the new lake township that was build on the remnants of more war relics.

The bustling town was before a jungle, then a village, visited seasonally by sailors, pirates tracing the legacies of the Chola empire ages before. Legacies for good or worst that shaped every corner of this land with the seven sins. And some good thrown around, like the seasoning in the bowl of noodle he had at the Chinese restaurant located on a deserted street in the old town. The new town is out of reach, out of the golden dreams. The new town was build on metallic dreams, littered with plastic and Styrofoam and evening TV series taking the family on emotional rollercoasters. The rain started to fall, slowly at first, one drop at a time, which he counted foolishly, and when it started to pour, the sound muffles his counts, and so he continued to eat. Sipping the hot soup slowly, and occasionally picking a piece of chili then carefully wrapping it in between the noodle and downing it without biting. But it still burns his tongue and throat and he coughs, alerting the noodle maker, a Chinese man who build his own life in this land a few thousand miles from his mothers grave.

The rain is back to drizzles now, after a good hour. The old man looked at the sky, one hand on his hear attack ravaged chest, anticipating a thunder, some suprises the world threw. It was calm, only the rain frogs made continuous calls for rain, coasting slowly in the drain, on a boat ride to a river somewhere. The man was amused looking at the frogs floating in the drain, wondering they found those floating leaves. He called for his grandchildren, and they came running bubbly, laughing, shouting. Those were his music. In the house, his daughter was decked in ancestral tradition in a red sari. Gold necklaces embraced her neck, more gold around he wrist and fingers and hips. A customary glass bangles around her arms, by her superstitious aunt. A wide eye looking at her from one corner of the room, he brother. His eyes misty, from tears of love. She will leave him soon. He walked to her, kissed her on her forehead, some of the pottu were smeared on his cheeks. His tears flowed down, forming some sort of alchemy with the red material. His heart broke into a million pieces, like a shattered mirror struck down from its place by fate. As his arms slipped away from hers, her own tear drops falling, cold like needle points on his arms, she knew she would loose him forever. He walked out of the room, to the gush of chatter of relatives, guests his father. Her husband will take her away, thousands of miles away, into a strange new land. She would slowly forget her family, diminishing phonecalls, like the crumbling love, as if the heart is made of clay. He will grow up to become a teacher. He would love his children, students and everyone. He will shower them with love from deep inside, his heart, he will inspire them all. The rain stopped soon, and milky fog crept around the town.

The Life

Born and raised in a small town, it is both painful and fun to watch the city evolve. From its ancient foundations, none of which that was present now, towards its uncertain future, because nothing of tomorrow is visible today. And in between this jagged reality, strewn around like time traps, we grew up. Nothing new, nothing old, just the growing life, growing souls slowly evolving like some isolated amazonian flower. Changing color, shapes and habits. Developing from harmless green leaves into poisonous traps for animals and humans. So life is not mysterious after all, we are supposed to grow old, because we need to see the world. We need to glorify the past and at the same time tie down the future rushing past. Like some Pantanal fisherman, angling in the wetlands, slippery fish, like slippery times rushing away from him. Everything is constantly moving, in any direction possible to get away from everyone and everything else.

And in certain scapes, time or the land, where the sun sets, the children cry, the men make love, we walked for days, and evenings on grounds made of stones and clay armed with little glass lamps, camping lamps, and we sat under the stars talking about everything from love to marriage. We created poetry, we left markings, and we learned history with our every mistakes. We picked up our lives when we were separated and thrown around the world. We were lost, and yet we found ourselves everytime we are lost. We found our true selves, we found others.

And love, love comes in many ways, many forms. Nothing compares for the love of family. Storms brew silently, just like in the family, then will come a day when we will be separated. It would be sad, painful, we would lie the crying for some uncertain days ahead.

And one day the city dies, this is reality. And on that day, we will only find each others hearts and minds.

The Mystery and Days

Everytime I leave my hometown, I feel my heart sink. I feel like some cold savage hand gripping it and pulling it out of my chest. I feel I'm leaving behind so many things, things, not things, but souls. I feel love, I see people who don't know how to show their love. I feel disappointment, I feel hunger that never satisfies. As the miles gets longer, as the sun sets, as the clouds disperses into the sky blue, slowly tears will flow down. Quickly, from a single reflex move etched in the genes, my fingers would wipe them of and I would close my eyes.

In between this love I see this tall huge barrier. I cant cross this barrier and when I look deeper this barrier is actually separating me from everyone. Its strange, however I want to be home, like the past years, where I spent days of sweet joy, pain, anger, tears, sadness and love at home, I cant do it now, even if I want to. This is a huge change, a change that I am not ready to face. But in reality this change has been appearing since I was small, since I was running around carelessly, not thinking of people, but rather the world. I don't want to be a prophet looking inside, sieving through sand looking for minute traces of God, and proclaiming I found love. Love is etched in the eyes, in the soul, in the smiles, in the touches. Love is in the stories, of yesterdays, of marriage, of death, of birth. When the red pottu appears on the forehead one day, there is no difference between God and humans. When the tiny tear droplet falls, warm on the palms of someone, that's love, and that's us humans. But why, among all this emotions I feel empty. I cant feel anything else, except fear. I feel scared for each moment because in life many would have to leave, to trace different routes, and most of the times they don't come back. And I am afraid in my life I would be the same. I cant seem to connect to the souls who gave birth to my soul, who shaped me and gave me a life. Those lives are living for reasons strange, for wantings extraordinary, they are living for the end.

Every step I take, from day one, from the day I was born, to this day, it was like some meticulous mathematical equation justifying my ways. I realized nothing was free, there were no freedom, everyone are looking into empty corners of the mind and the world. Because they themselves lost love, and they cant find they love from me, I cant even relate to them. And I realized that this is how it was to be. Reunion of the soul with the world. Not in its spiritual self, but in the days of life. The swaying of wind blown palms, life, traps of time, days of anger, you and me are lost in wanting, for the wanting of love and more that that a night to sleep a content soul. Something more powerful that all race and religion, is the yearning of the soul, which at most times is more powerful than love itself. And I feel it now, more than ever because the people I love are gone from me. I can only see them, their stories doesn't give me life anymore. But in between all of this, life is just like fiction, fictious honors, fictious promises of love that never comes. And someday I will sink fully into this life, and maybe forget everything that was. Those grand days when the love of a touch was enough to heal any wound.

[-] This is my 300th post. Something from the heart, pardon the twisting abstract visions, and thank you for being my friend. Hope for hundreds and thousands more to come. Hope we will be together forever.
[*] The early part of the post visits my hometown, with fictional characters, the later parts are my life and my feelings.



Hey,,Let me be frank...I am in a a busy mode as of now and will not be able to read posts in detail for another couple of weeks...But congrats . this is your 3rd centuary..Nice work there buddy!

Keshi said...

**Nothing compares for the love of family

U think so? I dun. Cos I feel families r close-knit cos we r born into them. But there r some family members who r more of enemies than a stranger on the streets.


Known Stranger said...

beauty lies in abstract things and not the perfection man tries to achieve as universe is not perfect - it is abstract.

hey.. nice you were there in my page.

the love i refer is the love to love.

tell me when had i made it clear picture. always with ambiguity.

leave the readers to feel about what love i speak

Jeevan said...

Congrats dear for your 300th post, and being as your friend in this movement. Well writen!

Every time i leave our cousin house after the annual holidays, i feel like leaving something, its unexplained feeling.

Kavi said...

Hey ! Congratulations on the 300th post. It shows ! - Articulate and well written !!

Family / small town connect is indeed powerful. The bond is unexplainable, goes deep and thick.

As Agasthya in English August says, "The ecstacy of the arrival never compensates for the emptiness of the departure"

AnnaBlack said...

Hi Gp... how are you... sorry having bit of a mare with IT at mo, but still in Edinburgh... making 30 films in 30 days right now... the links are on my website... :) Sorry, will write proper email when I get my laptop fixed. Big hugs mate Anna x

dumbdodi said...

I read this story......loved it...really loved it...it was deep and abstract..but i love such writing..it stimulates my grey cells ...i can't write like that...i am too simple and straight..
ALSO HAPPY 300th post..great great milestone...keep it up!!!


it rains around the world sleep welcomes the dream, and  enigmatic souls awaken along the eternal shores of destiny