When images come together
to take a whole new shape.
A hand and a toe,
Three concentric circles and Seven distorted cubes,
The dwarf hills of cotton and a pair of yellow shoes,
Memories of hollow ice and warm visceral dreams.
Dreams of a never-ending blue desert which merges with the sky somewhere.
With dunes, as tall as my father.
Where A red frozen lake sleeps underneath.
A vague act of repetition in chaos turns into a feeble hope.
Because we seek stories everywhere with purpose and meanings …
But here,
Meanings fade away slowly,
I look for words,
to understand, to explain.
But there aren’t any.
I keep looking at those images till everything becomes mundane
The extraordinary becomes ordinary.
A dimensionless solitude where time and space merge together.
Like a thousand-year-old clock hanging on a white wall.
Nobody recognizes it’s presence anymore
For them, it has always been there.
Always …
Just like that…
No one
Not even this thousand-year-old man.
when his mother fixed it there …
His little curious eyes were glued to it.
Chirp chirp tweet tweet…
The bluebird came out of the clock
And told him that it’s 5 o clock.
He stood there with eyes wide open…
Then,
He ran, ran and ran through the never-ending hibiscus fields,
The clouds looked like floating submarines…
He paused for a moment and in a glimpse, caught the blue desert passing by.
He ran, ran and ran in circles and cubes and rectangles
He ran,
Because he did not have any words to give a name to this newly found emotion …
He grew up a little…
and soon understood that the bird is not real,
it works because of the clinking clanking gears.
Centuries later,
He discovered the word.
“Magic: A fleeting feeling of pure bliss that exists only without meanings.”
kahaani waale ki diary 