Puppets on a string, strung together to the puppet master, each playing a role that goes beyond our persona's, our beliefs, our lives. Like my Grandfather, I live through life and those who know me, through me knows him. The same old die that the maker left behind, keeps creating likes of me for ever more. All the places that I will ever see are places I would have seen before, all the faces I will ever wear will be faces I have donned before. In me is everything that is there to be, in me is my personal definition of eternity. Scratch the surface or bleed me through, all the colors that you will see are colors that are part of me. I am one with all my selves, I just love to be.
If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.
If you were to cross the road and hurt your toe, I know that I will never know. As we go on to take different roads and move on across different shores, there is something that happens to our relationships. Something that estranges, disconnects, disintegrates. I know that you still think of me. I know this because I find myself thinking about you. And thoughts rarely get seeded on their own. It comes from you to I and from I to you until one of us is alive. Old relationships rarely die. Like broken winged moths, they hang around dark alleys of forgotten memory lanes. Ever so often, I can hear one of them flutter its wings. Not too close but never too far.