I will not pretend to comprehend fully, for this will require many a moon to contemplate.
But yet again, Gurudev, you have reached out and touched this brow lovingly and imparted sagely wisdom.
And for all you have given with a free heart, I remain in your debt.
A meagre thank you is all this mendicant can muster, for garrulity shall not be my wont.
Its been a long 400 days since that last flight.
Amidst the spiraling death count and subterfuge of social distancing, an imposed isolation takes its toll.
The human muscle was atrophied.
But soaring high above the clouds, all worries were put to rest.
These shades and hues remind of an anachronistic permanence that 400 days cannot extinguish.
And so, when the plane soars, the gaze lifts, and reminds us of what we are.
Cogito Ergo Sum.
The recognition of self is followed inevitably by a realisation of self and self worth.
Denying this self worth - by ostracisation, by law, by conditioning - is often employed to garnish an emaciated entity with a facade of power.
This veneer of monstrosity defines itself insularly and etches away at itself slowly.
As sure as the flowing water will carve out canyons, this visage will depart.
And whence one emerges from this cavern into the full daylight of life, transcendence awaits. For as simple as a breath of fresh air, is the axiom that we are all equal, announces itself.
Under the inky dome, stars wedded to it
My creation takes shape and form
I brought you forth and lived through you
And you became my crutch, night after day
Injecting you into my dreams to sleep with a smile
So shackled this imagination, so pallid its complexion
It aborts any sense of renewal, of vulnerable redemption and meaning
So, burn down what you worship
and worship the immolation, for this fire sustains life
And prepare to toil, to sow, to sculpt.
For the rivers carry a new song, and the sky deem us wondrous
Only if they shelter creations anew.
Dedicated to Emma Ruth Rundle.
You were the most perfect car in most respects. It was a good ride - ruined only very slightly by your creators lack of quality.
Goodbye little donkey. You've been a good friend.
All we can do is predict the storm and prepare for it as best we can.
Mother Nature does her best to love each of her creations.
Not out of malice. Caprice, maybe.
All you can do is accept it.
And when the last snow flake has landed and the winds throaty roar has faded into eerie silence, is a chance for rediscovery.
And Mother Nature allows us to choose the soundtrack.
She did make us predictably stubborn.
They say the arrow of time goes only in one direction. And that the direction is shown by entropy, so says physics.
Physics also describes music as a collection of sounds. A capsule of notes and intervals and pitch and rhythm, if you will.
But how do you go from ingesting this capsule to forming a memory? Where things are clear to the exclusion of all else.
And no one explained how ingesting this capsule makes time travel possible - as you are transported to different sands and smells, in a mere instant.
And no one even mentioned about the tears that now well up and on the brink of rushing down your face.
How could they have missed all this?
Maybe they lived that moment and chose to let us have our own.
Maybe they knew after all and did not have words enough to say it.
Maybe they could say it, but chose to read words of another.
Friedrich Nietzsche wrote: “For nothing is self-sufficient, neither in us ourselves nor in things; and if our soul has trembled with happiness and sounded like a harp string just once, all eternity was needed to produce this one event—and in this single moment of affirmation all eternity was called good, redeemed, justified, and affirmed.”
Maybe nothing more ever needed to be said.
