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.
Not all days are the same. There are those nameless faceless ones that are born out of ennui and quickly fly into oblivion. Nothing good comes from them. All they do is burn rubber. They don't take us closer to our destination. Then there are those days when the skies open up. There is an earth scattering screech, the kind you know will give way to a loud bang. Scarred for life you limp along, again. Crying over those who died and hurting for those who refused to ride with you again, you ride, for this is the only option you have known. And then there are those rare rare fairytale days. The ones that starts off without a cause but go on to transform themselves into days of momentous impact. These are those days that leave behind magical memories. That feeble hint of a smile amidst deep furrows of pain are from days as these. Travelers in time that we are, let's pray for short burst of sunshine and a fair share of fairy tale days.