Moving On

As the sun sets upon our stage
We need to move on and away
Lets not talk of the given and the taken
Just remember what came about and what will stay.

The yearning, like a slow flame may die
And leave nothing more than smoke and wax
But in words, songs and memories
May the treasure of our moments lie.

Maybe a day out on an unfamiliar street
Or in green paths of a woody dream
We will be passers by and we may meet
Let our words be happy and our embrace, sweet.

A trinket's wish

Crashing waves, mighty and white
A bundle of exhilaration and fright
Rise, roll, sweep and recede.
Imprisoned by the moon or are you free?

Happy greens, on dancing trees
Twinkling drops amidst your leaves
Sinewy boughs and a trunk of steel
Do you desire to walk and be free?

Standing proud, o mountain high
A temple of beauty, under starry skies
I wonder if beneath your tremors you hide
A dream of wings? an unrequited desire?

Ranger of skies, on steeds of glass
I wish to be as errant as thee
O mighty wind, the freest of all
Lend me your wings and release me.

To touch oceans, forests and mountains alike
To touch minds and hearts and have them believe
Its not folly for mere trinkets to dream
To wish to roam the world and to be free.

Lets go.

These cities, they seem lackluster;
To the mountains we must head.
Away from bright lights and billboards tall,
To the majesty of nature instead.

A late lesson

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad.
It wearies me; you say it wearies you.

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,

What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born,

I am to learn.

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,

That I have much ado to know myself.

Famous first lines from an equally famous Shakespearean play. The noble Antonio speaks these words I believe while standing at the balcony at a sea port and gazing out at the sea. His friends go on to suggest that it is his cargo currently aboard his majestic ships that are to blame. That his mind dwells upon the possibility of mishap, of his spices and silks being carelessly strewn on the waters of the mighty ocean. 

Back when I read this as part of high-school English, I failed to grasp the true idea behind these words. I was a mere child and children do not know or dwell on the causes of sorrow. Their fare is more primitive - laughter, mischief, instinctive jealousy, hunger, pain. To repeat what causes joy and to avoid what makes them sad. A physical trigger to a physically justifiable and curable feeling. 

As I got on to my motorcycle today, I suddenly realized I was reciting these words to myself. And in an instant the profoundness of these lines came to me, filling meaning into words I had read about 13 years back - a gush of red as today's wine came swirling eagerly into yesterday's glass. Little did his friends know of the nature of this sorrow. All the silk, gold and spices may yet fail to allay the dull despair he spoke of. Laughter, and good company may to some extent succeed where material wealth has failed. Good will and selfless giving better serve this ailment and a fulfilling life lived by ones own beliefs may be the best stance against this invincible enemy. 

The yellow leaves of sadness float about like an everlasting autumn. There is an incurable sadness in this world and its made of unrequited love, of the eyes of the old,  of the loss of life, of helplessness, of the feeble hand raised against the tyranny of money, of all the hunger of children in a world they did not build, of the castles of guilt in our minds and of the stupidity of the blind pursuit of material wealth. 

It gets me down, and when it does I will henceforth remember the saintly Antonio, the shrewd Shylock, the prodigal Bassanio and the clever Portia. More than all I will remember the goofy, fun-loving Launcelot Gobbo - for only by trivializing this life can I be careless and courageous, and by laughing at and accepting my misfortune will I be able to combat the sorrow it brings.

Theaters and clouds

An endless song in a pointless play
Why are we still bound to this stage?
I dont want to be a part of it anymore
Can I opt out? Can I go away?

Let me be

There is a preacher on the corner
Who burdens his own shoulder
With the weight of a deemed properness
"From this path you shall not digress"

These fences of the mind, they stifle me
We know it all and yet we do not see
There is no fear of a false life within us
But the fear of a loss consumes us?

We all have our own rivers
That carve our own banks and valleys
Is it not right to be and let be?
Is it not right to abide by what we believe?

Why do you want to chastise me
With the staff of your beliefs?
When we are but leaves in a doomed forest
Bound to succumb to the winter breeze.

It does not matter if I succeed
By the rules of your book
For happiness lies in writing my own
And in playing by it, for what its worth. 

Thinking on the move - The escape

I often wonder how it will be to feel the wind in my hair on a deserted road outside a remote city in an obscure country. A textured road sheathed in black, a streak of broken yellow down the middle, stretching from my feet to the green mountain in the distance. There is no sun here, not today, not now - take him out of the picture. Make it cloudy. Perfect. No shadows, no sun. Just clouds, the wind, the mountains and I. Maybe a motorcycle. A backpack, worn and dusty, the adventures and miles etched on its tough fabric. And on mine. The smile is not a strained one. Its without the weight of obligations - world imposed or self imposed. Stop when it pleases me to and move on when I feel I want to, all the while absorbing and observing. Here, time does not play taskmaster. It is only a sheet to script landscapes in, to pen down a city on and paint them with the hues of experiences and interactions. A song relayed by my headphones or by the scratchy radio on a rickety bus. Strains of melody that will years later bring back the smell, sights and sounds of a moment. All mine and yet made up of disparate elements brought to harmony by my senses in this puzzling world.

To take off without a care, to throw caution to the soothing wind, and to surf along and sway, and to be surfeited, surrounded and drown in glorious solitude, to be one with a stranger and to feel everything; even the emptiness at the core of my being. Feel it and know its there, so I know I have a role to play, a job to complete, a cavity to fill up with the experiences of my existence.

So who's stopping me from doing all this? Them and me. Mostly me.