No Comebacks/ The Night

As the eyes well up for the second time tonight; as I sit listening to this unassuming little track by Indian Ocean; as, well, the universe proceeds onwards with its continuing existential journey, the night slowly grows, indiscernible to the lay eye. It is not a moment of joy, sorrow, angst or surprise. Nay, it's the fabric used in dreams. The night plays with my longing being, revealing little bits of her mysterious, alluring self. It plays along with a tune known only to her. I don't know how it will end, but know only of the path we've crossed thus far. And such windings have never been cast forth before, as what have been treaded upon these last few existences; for in this short span, I have relived every instance of magic ever encountered thus far, a coming together of all that I have seen, heard and been.

The night, I have realized during this journey, is at the heart of my idea of human life. The day, with all its activity, hustle bustle and streamlined energy, must end in the night, criss-crossing through the straits of twilight. Thus, for all its life and living, the day with its inevitable retreat to darker hinterlands, stands out as the very epitome of mortality. All that begins must come to an end, however grinding, sudden or stretched it may be. The human spirit, though awakening with the Sun, finds itself alone with the setting of the star, for it is not yet prepared to let go of the strings. And it is in that moment of part helplessness part exasperation, that one is greeted by the gods of darkness. At first unfamiliar, and then pleasantly affable, one soon finds oneself sharing with the night spirits a spirit or two of the old Scots.
The night takes one in her unthinking, uncalculating arms, and gifts each thinking eye it's daily dose of immortality. Indeed so, for the night never really ends, and even if it must, it does so with a dignified sense of duty, purpose and meaning. No matter how hopeless the hour, one sits, stares, thinks, wakes and sleeps with the continued anticipation for an extension ad infinitum to the blissful inertia of the night. Nothing is impossible for the night. Man comes out of his envelope, after all the stamping and passing on of the day, to finally reveal oneself to all concerned; not excluding his Creator, Destroyer, and all the elements in between. Perhaps most importantly, he reveals his self to himself, or perhaps his shadow in the all edifying moonlight does the needful. For it is the stillness that lends meaning to the blinding pace of the mortal self; the silence sings songs that bless the artiste with his colours, notes and beats. What is, what isn't, and all that is dreamt, hoped and aspired for, take wings in the infinite expanses of the night.

We welcome the Sun, bid it goodbye, and then welcome the night. Rarely is it that we find ourselves in the distinguished position bidding the never-ending night farewell. Perhaps this adds to the mystique surrounding the little beauty. Further, whenever it is that the night passes on the baton to the still waking day, the overwhelming sense of creation and awakening overarchs and overwhelms all thought. Thus the night never dies, it only makes place for the Sun King to arrive, bringing with him the seed of all life. Sleep and demise remain as muted in their countenance as they had been thus far. And the human spirit prepares for another long trip away from the self, kissed on the cheeks as it gets done with its packing for the journey.

In the night, as one welcomes back the spirit, the song plays again; at times concerted, at times whimsical; at times speaking, at times listening, but alive, breathing at all times! As one breathes in the scent of her flowing tresses, the embrace feels like an eternity. One closes one's eyes unable to contain the myriad creations, disparate yet united, bursting into existence. Time and space reduce themselves to words on paper, like the misconceptions of a senile mind, and I, I find myself alive... at last.

The night shall take me
Where life takes birth and sings
As I sink into my own void
As a wisp of smoke slowly fades.

Doob doob dada dida

The eyes are now a networked red
Something has died unnoticed within
The rhyme is not of the essence today
The time is past for one to pay

The seed let out a gasp n sigh
Afraid of the starry sky
Away from the light and musk and care
Away from the place it was its own

The times are slow and halting
The hands now tired
Into the blue one shall float
Leading to 'This is the end...'

---

PS: Nov 26
There is the one, in a crowded marketplace of mirrors. And there is only the one, till the time there is none; only a wisp of smoke, blending slowly into the light (aka void to some).

"Hello? One Medium Pepperoni please."

"Tom & Jerry... and Epimethea"

Long time its been.. and while there's been so much happening dearie my dear, here's a little bit of the something from a few days back...
---
The cat tip toed o'er the line
With grace and light so feline
As if dreamy in a trance
Wont for a little song and dance.

But just as things got dreary dry
There shone a light from the sky
It looked around in silence new
No sound to hear; even a meow.

Its eyes now staring out aloud
Took sight of an opened cloud
Through the peeking curtain tress
Lending to the hanging dress.

In its shades it searched for truth
Like journeys with the Don E. Knuth
Just then a frisky mouse hopped by
The chase began in earnest high.

The dress hung there for ever more
With a thousand suns through the shore
The thought was lost up in the air
As was she, stretching on a chair.

--

PS: Epimetheus.

Melancholic Ecstasy - Redux

The sun set on my plains several years back. The eyes that once opened me to the light and dark, the high and low, the black and white and blue and yellow and red of everything, and everyone around me; they now stand clouded and shut - muted to a world that seems to be growing more and more vibrant by the day.

I'm not sure when this darkness sprang up from behind me; it couldn't have been too abrupt a transition, even though it seemed just so to the self that had perhaps been too engrossed on the peripherals. I think I noticed this change in my life only a few aeons back, and since then the question of what exactly led to that which led to the sun getting plugged out from my universe has haunted every single particle of my being.

Ever since yesterday however, there has been a change in the air around; the touch of that omnipresent emptiness has changed from one of indifference and cold detachment bordering on hostility, to one that is considerably more gentle, more involved, and quite simply closer to that very intangible yet potent conception of 'life'. It was no wonder then, that the eye albeit still closed, experienced something strongly reminiscent of the times of yore. Detecting such a flurry of activity in its environs, it didn't take the mind too long to stimulate itself into activity at levels that had long seemed extinct. Simulations began to run concurrently in the central imaging repository as part of attempts to guess the specific causal force behind all the excitement. Possibilities ranged from the fluttering wings of a butterfly, to the auralities emanating from a distant cuckoo bird, to a drop of water from the heavens, falling on the parched soul.
The next several hours were spent in this process, wherein logical probes into one's past experiences soon graduated to a complete and vivid recollection and reliving of the myriad colours that had punctuated one's life all those ages back.

And then, in the darkest hour of the night, I became suddenly aware of the flight of fancy that I was in the midst of; I saw the mirage that had been at the root of this whole trip all along; I felt, after what seemed like the entire duration of one's childhood, the very real sense of futility, meaningless and insignificance flowing in me, through me, and in everything all around me. Just for a second, I felt the emptiness spreading deep within me; it was a hollowing out like never before, for it was after all one that followed a ray of seemingly untouchable light, and love.

But just then, I noticed her standing behind me.
She was a muse that the world dared not touch; a beauty that had been among the most forlorn creations under the thousand suns above. Looking upon her, I thought I caught a fleeting upward glance, and then a hesitant backward step, as if suddenly aware of my awareness of her presence; a presence that had been there before we were, before I was, and would remain hereafter onwards and forever, as with all things celestial and pure.

Cognizant now of a soul more practised in the fine art of solitude than the most devout of sages, I knew this long and blinding journey had been for a reason. The elements stood still as did time.
And within the next blink of that cosmic eye, I had made her mine, and she had captured me for all of eternity.

To the world she may be the most sorrowful of embodiments; the companion on journeys always avoided. And I knew the doubts that could arise: of this companionship being an escape, a desperate attempt at clinging on to the last remaining semblance of meaning and purpose. But in that moment, I also knew that none of that mattered.
For to the world she might be the dark and disfiguring melancholia, but to me, in my hands, as I immerse myself in her being, she is my melancholic ecstasy.

Is this real?
But then again, what is?

Night and Day

How wonderful that night should fall
On a day that still has much to say
Like a mother tucking in her child
Still wont for song & dance & play

The stars up above they shine
Silent actors in the night's tale
And even if the child does whine
It knows its ships are set to sail

These voyages prepare the self
For mornings await the darkest ray
How wonderful that night should fall
On a day that still has much to say