And here we are,

in the midst of everything,

contemplating where would we be,

if not here.


The sleeping of experience.

As I sit in the train, which is full of people, some look happy, some perturbed, some look at me while I am writing, some don’t know that I am shamelessly and silently observing them. I see this small boy, looking at everyone and everything with a giant surprise in his eyes. I see him looking at me at some moments, I wonder what he might be thinking of me and as he is sitting beside a window, I wonder what he is thinking when he looks outside those iron bars. Such innocent face he has, and I think innocent mind too. I believe he doesn’t carry hatred in his heart for anyone and I am more than sure, he is not familiar with the ways of the world. For him, the world is all sweet and salt with some chocolates and ice-creams and toys. I see a mixture of both curiosity and surprise in his eyes, that he wants to know as much as he can, but not able to comprehend the vastness the world has to offer. In front of this small boy, sleeping is one old man. What a contrast! curiosity looking dead into the eyes of experience only to find them deep asleep. This old man was also a child once like you and me and the child in front of him.

What if he is dreaming of his childhood and witnessing that his childhood self is sitting in front of him on the train. What will he say to the child, to never grow old? to keep his innocence like one keeps his treasures? that the world is not sweet and salt and chocolates and ice-creams and toys? that the world is not what it seems from these windows? that you have to get down to know and feel it, that our assumptions of the things are always almost wrong until we experience them through our own senses.

Or maybe he will tell him to keep sitting on this corner window for a series of eternities because if he goes outside and grows old, he will get burdened with the weights and during the nights when he would try to catch some sleep, sleep would elude him in all forms. Perhaps he will tell him to be surprised and curious and then sleep will catch him in the moments he was too curious about the world so he can’t know more about it, perhaps because the less you know, the more you sleep.

Now I see both the old man and the child sleeping, with both their head and hands being supported by these rusty iron bars of the windows, the flow of experience has stopped. Maybe sleep is more important than experience, at least for this small boy and the old man has so much experience that he can’t compromise sleep for experience anymore.

The eluded peace.

There is uncertainty in my thoughts,

they don’t synchronize well,

they betray me, backstab me,

but I revere them,

like an abused, exploited lover.

I try to make peace with them.

peace with their eccentricity,

peace with their uncertainty,

and peace with their turbulence,

But the peace eludes me time and again,

But the peace eludes me time and again.