|Baranti Dam, 2014|
Teach me, the art of incoherence. Nature is but incoherent, yet weaved together to form a fine picturesque carpet.
Have you ever watched the patchwork of farming fields from a height? You must have. You are much well-traveled than I and that is only one of the things I envy about you.
Another would verily be the courage to weave incoherently. What takes courage is not the weaving but losing control; allowing meaning and abstract to take their own space, to make their own space.
A thousand white birds took flight with the dance of the piano keys. A setting sun colored my horizon golden. I shiver with the meaninglessness of such poetry, yet they occur.
The most beautiful sunset I have witnessed, carried in its womb the rage of a storm. On the same evening, I had seen a burning pyre against the sky where darkness slowly assembled to pour itself on to the bosom of the river.
I am slowly learning to savor my lust for death. It must be okay if I don’t feel like living for all the days of my life. Yet, in each of them, I wake up, eat, dream, pray, work and smile. There are other people who do so too. There must be.
I don’t envy them. I only feel, there must be, somewhere, a carpet very soft for people like us.
And, probably, a door, open, forever.