Speak, write.

Here i am, everything
rushing by around me and yet
All is still, I look quietly.
Where does the night go,
how does the light know
when I have come in, hidden behind
crouched and moved and hushed, till I find
Eyes that cannot see me
eyes that somehow know me
Is it my heart or is that how
it was from the start
Is it how it shall be and it is meant to be
Yet right now only how I wish it to be?
Clasping and reaching and clawing
These are meaningless actions that mean more than most others
But do I know what they imply
or am I just waiting to try
To understand, to connect, to find
that yes, it started in my mind
But on it will go, and on it will flow
Till it rises and swells and till I will know-
This is what it is, and all that was before
and pre-packaged inserts in my life
will not mean much because here it is
Fresh and beautiful and exciting
and unknown and unknowable and frightening
But it is mine it and I belong to it
I am together more than even I know it
With me and her and us and everything else-
-and nothing else at all.

65

I had dinner at the Gs today. When I kissed friends and kids and dog goodbye and walked to the road, I realised I shall take the bus home. A direct bus. The first to spring to mind was Bus #65. I said to myself, "Sixty-faaiive." I realised what I was saying.

It was from "'65, tensions running high...in my high school", which was from Springsteen's My Hometown. I did not have it on my iphone. I youtubed it. Heard it a couple of times as I walked to the bus stop and waited for my bus. I was moved. I walked, thinking it wonderful how a song so deeply & specifically relevant to America in the 60s could resonate with a 10 year old in Delhi, India. And now with a 30something year old in Singapore, in different ways and also in the same old way.

My undulating day bonded with the me that was being moved by the song. Circuitry connected, welling saltwater threatened, my inner rawness found new (even silly) connections that even in fleeting were weighty. I listened to music (Heloise now) and read nothing, did not even take out my book. I just sat in the bus and came home. I now don't even know what I thought of, or what I saw or quite what I felt. I just was.

And oh, I caught bus #64 home.

And oh, I just realised 65 is how I often refer to this place. The 'plus six five'.  

Expect the expected

When you plan and think so much, that unplanned thing you want, isn't going to happen. Nor that unthinkable one you are waiting for.

Yet the mind plots and schemes, oblivious that it is trying to con fate into a surprise that isn't. In fact, all your mind is doing is swindling you- short changing both your wish and your reality.

But the thoughts, the possibilities- how sweet they are. So perfectly random, so ideally unexpected, so joyfully spontaneous.
It's a pity you thought them, though... for that's all they will remain.

Twilight

The sun dithered, neither here nor gone; pretending to be uncertain about the one thing certain in our lives.
The light dimmed. My eyes, heavy with sleep and dullness, gave up. My head fell to one aside, me strangely aware of this.

The phone beeped, my head jerked, the heart followed- racing while my body extricated itself from the drowsy depths.

My mind smiled through the veils of nothingness around it. The sun had gone. The night was here. My night, empty and inviting and unknown.

Stretches

The hours, they drag. They stretch, though they can't; but my mind wallows in every moment, gazing at it, dully seeing it stare back. No expression, no spark, nor any intensity. Unless intense nothingness counts.

The days, they segue. One touches the other in a lazy relay of inconsequence, passing the minimal light of continuity out of some ancient sense of duty. Or some mechanical process of biology and nature.

I eat. I eat till I feel I could burst. I enjoy the eating, but I perversely enjoy the idea of stuffing myself. It is a dull sort of perversion, not the tingling rush of twisted enjoyment.

I blink but my gaze at life feels unblinking. The sameness, the immovable horizon that isn't even there, the monotone road that stretches toward it.

A trifle

I realise I have spent the better part of my life saying troofle not
truhffle, for truffle.
Hmmm.