Indulgence is just a personal expression, a search inside the soul, an attempt to tiptoe silently in the inner world of turbid emotions, to embrace oneself for one's imperfections, to allow oneself the liberty of gloom and the madness of joy, and the candidness to mould them into words...
Come under the tent and let me show you the night sky that I have painted. Listen to the sound of the forests and the rustle of the winds, but be silent, for you do not want to disturb, the creatures in slumber. You and I, are but fragments, of a larger fragment, and nothing we say or do is going to suffice. So, be silent and listen. For when you listen, you will find a music flowing through everything. You will never find the words to sing, so let the music fill you too, all the spaces and silences and nothingness within you, that you attach so much importance to. Lend me your hand and lie by me. Listen also to the rhythmic beats of my heart while I listen to yours, because you and I are nothing, but notes of this ever-flowing music. Lets create a symphony that is above sorrow and disappointments, expectations and regrets. Let us just be music for once, for the sake of music. Because that is all there is.
I am here. Between night and day Between the domain of slumber and wakefulness The day slowly and subtly dilutes, casting on my face an innocent beam of sunlight A beam that started a million years ago..
to fall on me the way it does now from the opposite window of the bus
and to turn my eyes and hair
a reddish hue of brown Me, an unknown face, wandering through nameless roads and fields
Why do some of these people
look straight into my eyes while the others
just pass through me Perhaps life, being an undefined, unquantified force
is capable of causing flickers
and ripples by mere presence or absence, for that matter
The rays weigh my eyes down
and my ears are clouded with the whispers
of the trees
They speak of weather and color
and words that sound to me like
On the verge of breaking apart Fragile figure of China glass Too much glue and too much tape Too much effort to keep a face Shabby layers of Persian paint Covering up a shallow dent Polka patterns in pretty pink Peeping from an ugly chink A crystal of a sand-like thing Escaped the fusing in the kiln And a certain handle of sorts Twists and curiously contorts It rumbles, rings and also rolls All in very clumsy control And had you not seen its tiny mounds You'd think it almost round
Quite a tricky object I see No shape, no color, no certainty Peculiarly odd for a glass thing To be no vase, no goblet, nothing
Its almost like it aims to be just a random oddity.