And my mind is drifting slowly into the pleasures of a recess. The green grass, the crumpled tufts, the yellow pollen, drifting along sunlit paths, powdered, and somber. The pollen gets its radiance from the sun. I can feel it glowing brighter now. And warmer. Yellow swarms my vision. And then a touch of red, flooding in from the periphery like ink, and my eyes start to feel weary under the burgeoning canopy of all the light, and warmth of the universe. My hand responded and a shade of grey smothered the sunlight. The wind then beckoned, the ruffling leaves obliged, a few branches quivered and a shower of dendritic produce. Yellow, orange, white and green. I get up, as my body begins to feel the heat again. A bicycle is approaching. Riding it is no one. I have waited long enough for the moment and the moment is here. I reach for my camera.
.. .. ..
The editor is not amused. Disappointment is an entrenched crevice on his forehead. Shattered is not my heart, and not his either, but shattered is my perception of reality. Bland is his reception, his eyes say it all. I explain to him. John, the cycle is on a journey. Its rider is a young woman possibly in her early twenties. She is not riding the cycle, but the cycle is driving her along. She has no direction. She is like a pollen amidst other pollen, but radiant, like a resplendent chandalier. I see her worries, they seem to melt into her surroundings. She belongs to the air, to the sunlight, to the warm universe, like a child to her mother; why cannot you see, her smile, the beatitude, the sense of harmony, exuding from each and every little freckle on her cheek, the impersonation of the timeless aura of the wind that plays with the pleatings of her frock, her vibrant sexuality, riding on the air of a scandalous love affair, her little nail that got unceremoniously clipped in a little accident only yesterday night, with her frisky lover. Can you not see?
.. .. ..
The ocean shore is never a quiet place to be. But I like to sit here for sometime,whenever I can, on these rocky shores, experiencing an inebriating sense of diminution. And then I loose myself, in those waves, in the imaginations of the tide, chasing the surfer, and his surf-board, pattering like rainfall on his auburn hair, undressing his body by the sheer force of will. I feel like the ocean, like a certain noise, churning, gurgling in the background, and like the daughter of a mother, all tucked in under the breast, the heart of the ocean. I get up, and I begin to walk over the rocky shores. Maybe the salty breeze, maybe the ruined sand castles, maybe the mellow sun, maybe a blood red bucket over the yellow expanse, like a desert war zone with all the bloodshed, maybe ideas drift past me and hopefully I may never sneeze. The sun is soon to set. But the moment is now. I reach for my camera and click with a sigh of relief.
"Siddharth, would you answer a question for me? How do you know that you're alive?"
"No seriously, what'd you..."
"It's a tough one, I guess. I guess there are those times. Those moments, when you think you've completed yourself in some way, some purpose, through an extension of your work,..., that moment. And of course, I feel I'm most alive when I'm with you", I added with a smile.
Her cheeks dance to a silhouette in the yellow light from the fire. Her lips tremble with the burden of modesty, but she doesn't have to. No, she shouldn't.
Meanwhile, I wondered why I felt so naked tidied up in a turtle neck.
To be continued...
.. .. ..
The editor is not amused. Disappointment is an entrenched crevice on his forehead. Shattered is not my heart, and not his either, but shattered is my perception of reality. Bland is his reception, his eyes say it all. I explain to him. John, the cycle is on a journey. Its rider is a young woman possibly in her early twenties. She is not riding the cycle, but the cycle is driving her along. She has no direction. She is like a pollen amidst other pollen, but radiant, like a resplendent chandalier. I see her worries, they seem to melt into her surroundings. She belongs to the air, to the sunlight, to the warm universe, like a child to her mother; why cannot you see, her smile, the beatitude, the sense of harmony, exuding from each and every little freckle on her cheek, the impersonation of the timeless aura of the wind that plays with the pleatings of her frock, her vibrant sexuality, riding on the air of a scandalous love affair, her little nail that got unceremoniously clipped in a little accident only yesterday night, with her frisky lover. Can you not see?
.. .. ..
The ocean shore is never a quiet place to be. But I like to sit here for sometime,whenever I can, on these rocky shores, experiencing an inebriating sense of diminution. And then I loose myself, in those waves, in the imaginations of the tide, chasing the surfer, and his surf-board, pattering like rainfall on his auburn hair, undressing his body by the sheer force of will. I feel like the ocean, like a certain noise, churning, gurgling in the background, and like the daughter of a mother, all tucked in under the breast, the heart of the ocean. I get up, and I begin to walk over the rocky shores. Maybe the salty breeze, maybe the ruined sand castles, maybe the mellow sun, maybe a blood red bucket over the yellow expanse, like a desert war zone with all the bloodshed, maybe ideas drift past me and hopefully I may never sneeze. The sun is soon to set. But the moment is now. I reach for my camera and click with a sigh of relief.
.. .. ..
I smiled, silently contemplating on the frenzied activity behind her serene grey-green eyes. It wasn't a smile of derision. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was more due to the banality of the proposition. But Anita was an intelligent woman. And I always took her seriously.
"I don't know, why'd you ask babe?".
"..."
"I don't know, why'd you ask babe?".
"..."
"No seriously, what'd you..."
"Come on now, you know what I mean."
"Ah no!" At this point the pedant in me, and a student of Heidegger's philosophical musings on the meaning of existence, replied, "Well, when we generally ask a question, with regards to a certain entity, the entity itself is well specified in its being. Only then, can we frame the question, and address the means of finding a solution to our query. This is a question that has troubled..."
"No, I want it vague!", she quipped, interrupting my dull monologue. "So I I'll know how you think about it."
"No, I want it vague!", she quipped, interrupting my dull monologue. "So I I'll know how you think about it."
Anita, as gorgeous as she was, and she always had a way with words. She had a way with everything, so sweet and beautiful she was. And I found meaningfulness in her simple ways. That spark of imagination that she was, she made life exciting.
"It's a tough one, I guess. I guess there are those times. Those moments, when you think you've completed yourself in some way, some purpose, through an extension of your work,..., that moment. And of course, I feel I'm most alive when I'm with you", I added with a smile.
Her cheeks dance to a silhouette in the yellow light from the fire. Her lips tremble with the burden of modesty, but she doesn't have to. No, she shouldn't.
Meanwhile, I wondered why I felt so naked tidied up in a turtle neck.
To be continued...
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