Colors

We just don't see colors, we do so much more with them.
Ever closed your eyes to really close them?

You see an iridescent net enclosing you, challenging you to stop it from shifting,
its weight about the infinity that your eyes stare at that when they close.
You wish you can see past it, red light, green light, speckles flecked with gold,
the world matrix, colorful.

Purple seethes over over me, a cry of angry red and soulful blue,
mystified by its keeper, a silver snake, slithering about my wrist,
it gazes at me, tongue flickering, releasing purple madness with a twist.

And blue alone, my blue, my everclear. Blue is the bridge, but not quite,
it is the uncertainty in black and white,
irregular, but just perfectly so, rays and rays of it,
wherever I go.

Colors are your brain giving your blind eyes a taste, of what it really feels like to feel;
To reel from sheer, dear sight.

Nexus

The wind was surprised, as someone cut through it,
introduced an unwelcome pollution in its foamy air,
raised his hand, bade it to rest,
stopped it's path headed west.

Neurons flickered out bright,
fed by stars in a starry night,
and connected, soared,
and ignited the minds of thousands more.

Thousands looked up to the sky at once,
resonated amongst each other, liberated,
a mind collective, one objective,
widened their eyes and cheered.

The wind drew an icy chord between them,
their hair flew as they looked forward,
whole races, in mental embrace,
seared with a thought of a single chase.

The Deal

The boy jumped about, running away from his mother while she tried to feed him, and only when she started reading out a story that he did he (at first) start to slow down and pay attention, and then meekly sat down next to her with his mouth and ears open. The Seera (an Indian sweet dish) seemed to keep melting away in his mouth as the story filled his mind with detail, and bought a sparkle to his eye. He was five, and had started to need something more than Clifford the Dog to keep him seated in one place.

"Do you like the seera, child?"

"Yes, but it's not as good as what Pati..."(his mom's mom) "...makes. However its a great attempt mom, I think you've gotten the sweetness just right".

His mother smiled at the critique delivered in a thoughtful tone. She did learn how to make seera from her own mother, though she'd been more drawn to the sour and spicy dishes as a child. She started to wonder how many more bites her son would sit down with her for...

"Mom, when I grow old and have kids, you're going to have to make all of them seera, and make it nicer and nicer each time"

"All of them? Just how many children are you going to have?"

"I think 12 is a good number, 6 boys and 6 girls", he said.

His mother couldn't stop laughing at the thought, and proceeded to read him next chapter of the story. At seeing his demand smiled on, the kid turned his mouth away from the proffered spoon,

"Mom, you must promise!"

"Well, before that, don't you want to know the Katie is going to start going to school in the next chapter?"

Mothers have tricks, ranging from subtle distraction to outright bribery - the current story book seemed to fall into both categories. The kid's eyes widened as his mouth opened in surprise and fell silent.

A chapter later, once the boy had had enough to eat, the mother abruptly got up and said, "Its time for me to fix your brother some food, I'll be back, the next chapter is really good". She then walked into the kitchen, without any intention of walking back in the next two hours.

The kid waited as his brother was served, started to get irritated, but his mother seemed to be occupied every time he tried to drag her back. She managed to be on a phone call, in the bathroom, working in the kitchen. He was torn between the indignation of not getting the attention he wanted to what really was going to happen next in the story. Just as his mother had hoped, curiosity won the better of him as he slowly began to read. He managed two entire, narrowly typed chapters in three hours before he quietly curled beside the book and went to sleep. His mind had started to buzz with stories and the possibilities of getting more and more of them from books. Only then did his mother almost mystically appear, put a pillow under his head and blanket over him. As she was about to turn off the lights, she heard his deep slumbering breaths and said, "My son, we have a deal."

------

Happy Mother's Day, ma :)

Endgame

These nights, I give myself time to play or listen to music before I go to bed. Today, I know I will wake up earlier and fresher because of it. There's something so therapeutic about leaving a day behind, to turn and focus on something you know simultaneously relaxes, strengthens and assures your mind. Especially while listening to music, focusing on just the beat initially keeps you right in the present. But the recesses of your brain then catch onto strains of harmony and melody that evoke lucid visions in your now clear brain. Visions of those you love, what you care for, all tinged with an emotion that's impossible to comprehend without the memories it is playing on. Now I realize my breath. Now I open my eyes. Now I breathe. I feel sweat gently turn inside my veins. Me and my body have just lived.

Drawn to the River

I read Shusako Endo's "Deep River" - a story about a group of Japanese tourists visiting India, especially Varanasi. The book combines two of my favorite cultures and I had to say something about it :)

Sunrise touches wrinkled foreheads,
as ashes rain down in commemoration,
over the deep river, dust to water,
cast from a young one's hands.

Teachers pray, and prayers teach
Chaos inspires peace here,
with reason, comes some resonance,
of no reason at all.

A single mother flowing, glowing,
taking all's cries and tears,
with her, surely she must,
shed some of her own.

A family sits, bound together,
by the belief that such a sight exists,
and will forever remain,
as the Ganges flows through their veins.