window sentence

he was standing at the window looking out at the lawn. the front yard started with the lawn grass, leading to a parched arch-way. he looked back into the room, the couch, the showcase, the walls, the artifacts. everything was as it could have been. except there were thoughts, too of one, who could have been.

the lawn, the arch-way, the room, the memoirs were built with infinite grit, summarized as ‘silent head down character’. some years ago, the incident taught him to take up responsibility, at a very young age. yet, in a way, he was not grown-up enough to believe in what/how he would be handling it, thinking is this how people are forced to grow up in life?

and the cute sister, was a major reason for the character to be displayed in the coming years. time elapsed, and he surfed through them. he never thought of the difficult path explicitly. leaving aside all the harsh things, there was a selfish soul-victory awaiting, if he could surpass this field. one fine day, when he would be by the window, looking into the room, he wanted the satisfaction of having done the right things and filling the shoes commendably. angels...

the weight of the added responsibility, was subsumed by the feeling of the mental strength. he wished, some time ahead, an angel would tell him that he did what he was destined to do, and that he did it well. he knew it was stupid of people to wish for such things.

he was swaying in his mind. the room was dim-lit, like his thoughts. it was like a marathon started a few mile-years ago, and there was this moment of introspection gifted to him. he did not want to think of any well-wisher who would tell him, “you did well, so far.” yet it would mean so much..

he didn’t know what the circumstances would have been, what/how he would have been meted out, whether these thoughts would have ever transgressed his minds, whether he would have been questioning his way... too many questions drained him time and again.

yet he had the ability to keep clear of all these thoughts from time to time. and never ever disclosing his uncertainties. this is how he was.

as the light died over the wall recesses , the thoughts circled inside him.. the incident, destiny, way, angels, well-wishers, questions, weariness..

he looked at the sun, and though of it for a minute. it was burning itself for eons. the only cloud on the horizon, shaded the sun for a brief moment. at that time, he heard a soft sentence, as someone entered the room, “I don’t know how to say this. thank you for what you have been, for i haven’t missed dad for these many years, since that day.” his sister then wished him and left the room..

he did not know how the angels actually sounded, but.. as he was thinking, he felt a beam of sunlight lauding him, and touching the room. he gazed at the sky again, smiled and continued looking out of the window.

it was very pleasant and gratifying outside and inside...

iconic lost

the other day i was chatting with my friend and all of a sudden i had typed up, this set of icons on the window..

after a quick glance, i said 'that is probably the story of LOST in a nutshell' (albeit a bad nutshell)

smart stupe complement

the alert things you do, I stop and run through the thoughts,
for you get up sharp obedient, I snooze a little, hazy lazy way;
ready you are, well trimmed, I rush through like crazy bots,
on time good breakfast you take, me too, but half an hour astray.

perfect bus, smooth ride to you, I run at its view, clinging on,
all set for a good day you, little exhausted commute for me,
good start at the desk for you, a tidy desk I could never don,
right post-its guide you, to organize my list, I am never glee.

polish one after other, artist, great feeling, satisfaction for the day,
tumble one after other, ugly dogged, dead, achievement of the day,
on the tick, post-its done, the corridors have a smart one leaving,
important ones done, un-essentials struggled, really time for leaving.

clean balance, sports awaits, music, friends and celluloid follow,
fluxed poise, instincts dictate, no one really knows what is to follow;
oneself, family, friends and world, nicely done in two dozen hours,
nothing to lose but scraped through all, so different the same hours.

for I have the sixteen lines and am very happy, even looking at thee
and probably you have the reverse lines and are happy, looking at me.

lone shoot

I am very scared, the darkness is creeping me out,
as the crickets murmur to the evil, the uneasy bout;
they whizz past me, for companionship, I so much pine
the gust of wind, sends chilly shivers down my spine.

the distant array of lights desert me some time at 1,
by my side, there’s one late friend, that’s the sun;
but ghosts and feet, wear me till then, no end
and affright me, leaving nothing in my life to mend.

my friends pass, as milk and machine, food and scene,
pasture or lawn, counterpart’s short domestic lives;
long live I, but far on the gazelle when the lion dives,
that’s dead, and I am bruised, left in this circle as a roué.

I fade out, on my own, small, nice, wild and extinct;
a scared old being’s life, a comparison succinct;
I was luckier than all of them, for I had no ill-death,
but they lived the moments, they Aleph, me the Beth.

when it is dark and silent in distant un-occupied
lands, probably the lone grasses spend scary nights.