Peace

Peace is difficult.

Difficult to find, difficult to maintain, difficult to understand... and even more difficult to comprehend. In the course of one life you will stumble upon many moments that will make you question the very concept of peace.

In the morning dew, I found God.
In the searing sun, I found Truth.
In the darkness of the night, I found Hope.
In sorrow, I found Man.
In between all this, I stumbled across Peace.

Crossroads

Like travelers we have traveled. Who didn't know where they began, why did they pack their bags in the first place and to where they were headed. The thing about traveling is that once you have gone around the world, you always reach the start. The foolish ones say they never went anywhere. But you never come back same. Nor the place, nor the person. Never the same.

And so here we are again... the people who began the journey... the place where it all began... at crossroads.

Arrival

Once a boy asked the sun "Did you know, from the time you were born, that you would burn? That you would burn out and die?"

The sun replied "In our essence, we are what we are. We will be what we will be. One day I will burn out and die, but I cannot blame the fire for that. It burns in me... into me... through me... And it has brought me where I am. What would i be without my flame?"

The roads that I have passed through.
The moments that have passed through me.
The rivers that have flown through
and the wind that has blown.
Have all brought me to this.

The trees and the birds never really die. The howling wolves come back to the hunter moon. The wind doesn't die. Nor does the sunlight or the waves. We never die. Nor do our emotions.

Everything is either trapped in a cycle to come into the light again or buried till its time. The eventuality of every moment that is yet to come defines death and rebirth. In the time that we spend awake, we form a being that collects the sleeping moments of our inner self. Over the course of time, these moments arise and fall like the waves.

Relentless and infinite.

The time has come to die.
To die and be reborn,
To wither and be sown.
In this endless cycle of loss and gain,
It is time to flow again.
The days were alive,
and we lived because we were alive.
We ebbed and flowed,
Were swept out to sea,
Only to come back again.
Crash on the shore.

But let us now cover the sun.
Let us pretend.
Let us say it is night.
Let us imagine the moon and the stars.
Now that the darkness is here,
Let us slip quietly into the streets
and disappear.
The time has come to die.
For that is what we believe.

Storm

The worst of storms come without a warning. Ripping apart the sky of your being and tossing you around helpless. They come and they go, but leave you restless... to live with a fear of the horizon.

It is through these storms that man learns true meaning of strength. To hold on... to get up and walk... and to build again what is no more. To capture the thunder and hide it away for no one to see. So when the rain stops falling and the lightening disappears... the thunder resides in the heart.

To think of man as the smallest piece of a puzzle and then to think of him as a puzzle in himself. Few will ever understand what the soul of man is and even fewer will understand what it desires.

To march forward with time as a friend and an enemy,
desire more from a drop of water than from the ocean,
hold a breath until it becomes a storm,
to believe in the seed as much as the tree.
Very few will ever understand the heart of man.

To understand the origin of desire is to overcome it. After years of fulfillment, a man's heart always feels empty... devoid of every emotion that resembles or is reminiscence of something full. It is our fate and our greatest failure to not see that the purpose of desire is not of collection and conquest, but of knowledge.

In our deepest sleeps we conjure up our deepest desires from the depths of our mind and feel them as ripples across the thin skin of our eyes. 'Subconsciousness' we say! In these limited dreams from which we wake and have no memory of, the bellow of infinite trumpets will always be that of a funeral march and not one of victory.

The one in the coffin spoke of a dream.
The one in the dream, spoke of a desire.

We came walking to these shores,
A very long time ago,
With nothing but dreams and hopes
Of a better life and love.
The confusion that was mine was also yours
And we planted it in the sand
The waves came and took it away
Only to wash it ashore
But the times have changed and so have the shores
We are not the same anymore
And so the journey begins... again.

Blue skies seem like a distant memory
The storm has come and stayed like an unwanted guest
The wind sings through the windows
Howling.

The Self

The Self is your greatest friend.
It is your greatest enemy.
The Self always understands, but when it doesn't it always give reason to go ahead.
The Self does not take blame, but gives guilt.
It takes pride and gives strength.
In moments of deceit and failure, the Self gives pity.
In moments of victory and conquest, the Self takes credit.
One can never be without the Self.
Even in moments of silence and loneliness, the Self always speaks.
In times of madness, the Self always expresses.

Very few times in our lives do we come face to face with our Self. More often then not, we close our eyes and march on with our heads down in shame... or heads held high but our eyes closed. Our greatest fears are not of what lurks around us, but of what lurks inside.

To stand beside our Self, is to be truly our self.

What we are, in reality is very different from what we see ourselves to be. In moments of our greatest weakness, we come to understand the meaning of strength. In moments of our greatest confusion, the voice inside becomes very clear.

It's strange that at one moment we can stand apart and judge our own being for a crime, yet forget that in the darkest moment, we were the ones who provided reason and comfort for murder. In a passing moment of righteousness, we all forget the moment in time where the guard was down and the mind was fragile and crumbling.

All our misguided philosophies and our misplaced thoughts of freedom, cannot save us from what we truly are... Human. I am yet to meet a man who has stopped pretending to be God and accept himself. We shall forever fail in running away from ourselves, but we shall never stop running. Because the Self is ugly. And we believe that we are too beautiful for the truth.

But as hard as it is to BE human, it is yet harder to accept that the person in front of us IS human. In all flesh and bone. In all thought and action. In all mystery and simplicity. Just human.

Symphony

This is just the overture darling
Wait till the music actually begins
When the notes dance and the air moves
When the choir really begins to sing
In the dead of the night
When the rich city sleeps with empty streets
Where there was blood once
Tonight... there will be music.

Crossroads

The moon has set beyond the waves
And the sun begins to speak
As we wander through the once busy streets
We come to see the dreams
The night never repeats itself
Nor the wind that blows today
But the roads that lead to Gods town
Are deserted like any other day
To here we have arrived
And from here we shall depart
These roads, they never die
Leading us to crossroads.

Wise man

Someone once told me that a wise man always sits beneath a tree in the midst of the thickest forest because that's where he can hear the voice of God and his creatures. Away from the cars and the machines, the laughs and the screams.

Then a man came along, dressed in a suit and shiny shoes, and said "Young man. Wise men reside in indestructible concrete buildings. Sit in a carpeted room with air conditioning with the world dancing on their fingers. From there they make the world hear what their mind speaks and put green papers in their pockets."

Then a woman came along. She had big eyes and long black hair. Her lips red with war paint. She smiled at me and said "There is no wise man. Never was and never will be." She looked away, put a flaming ember to her lips and inhaled.


I will be ninety in a day. I still haven't found the wise man. There have been many wiser than me, but each one fell away along the way. If i ever do find him, i just want to ask one simple question. "Will it be worth it?"

I realize that like many other people in this godforsaken world, I too enjoy the chase more than the prize. Atleast with the chase there is progression and change. With victory... there is stillness.

It hard to subdue the feeling of discomfort when you begin to outgrow your conquest. When holding on become harder than the achievement itself. The constant question we keep asking ourselves "now what?"... like a blunt knife cutting through the skin...relentless.

Over the last couple of months, I've come to explore parts of myself which I had assumed to be secure, only to discover their immaturity. Learning is the progression of gain and loss.

As we Gain, we ask ourselves "what next?".
As we lose, we ask ourselves "What now?".

Over the course of the next few months, life will change as I know it. Not that it never did before, but this time it's going to be differnt. This time there will be struggle like never before... Victory like never before.

Thunderdance

When the thunder came crashing in,
Oh when the thunder came crashing in
Crashing in... Oh crashing in,
Crushing and screeching
Scattering and shattering,
When the thunder came crashing
Crashing in...
Oh crashing in...
Tumbling and crumbling...
Moving and stumbling...
Shaking and rattling...
Slipping and crashing...

When the thunder came crashing...
Oh when the thunder came crashing in...
Crashing in...
Crashing in...
Oh crashing in...
In the silence I sat.

Where art thou?

Hide and seek is all you played
When the gray clouds roamed my midnight sky
There was lightning all around
But you were no where in sight
Why the absence?
Why the games?
I heard your whisper from far away
As i felt you all around
The lightning pale without you
And the storm incomplete
Like a song without its words.

Cloud dust

We are nothing but dust fallen from the skies
Where the rain dances and the thunder sings
In the vicinity of dark clouds
Where there is no love and no hate
Just the wind blowing aimlessly
As the lightning leads the procession
In the darkest of our nights
We sit and listen to them dancing above
To music we've heard since the beginning
Playing till forever

We are nothing but dust
Falling to the rhythm
Of an unsung song.

Songs of Thunder - I

I don't know
What to make of these songs
That you sing in the dark
Loud noises and words
I don't understand
A language unheard of before
Or heard but never understood
Tell me at least
For who are these songs for
You sing and sing
Without any meaning

I don't know
What to make of your songs of thunder
But when you sing...
Everything listens.