Staring At The Painting,

Staring at the painting,

and being stared by my reflection on it,

as we both shift on our legs, musing.

I wonder if my reflection is jealous of me being in the real world,

Or I am jealous of her being in the not-so-real world.

I wish for the barrier of canvas between us to disappear so we can talk about this matter at hand.

We rarely meet with people who have the same energy as us. Often, the connection is strong, but it may be not aligned well. To understand and to be understood is an art. And art is mostly an illusion. Randomness is what that makes things special. That no matter how badly we fit, we still try our best to. :)

There are days when I want to hide from the world, of it's hard glare, of it's calculated scrutiny and cover myself with the fluffiest of blanket and drown in a sleep so deep, that dreams disappear.

But then I have this friend named Life. He stands behind me, and whenever I am too lazy to walk, he pushes me forward. If I somehow fall asleep, he rings the most hideous bells in my ears and wakes me up to realization. If I sit on my way, too stubborn to go ahead, he narrates me a story whose moral is to 'move on'. If I am too low sometimes, he sits beside me and mourns, then wipes his tears and mine, and says, 'Too much waterwork for a day! Get back to work you dumb!'

The best thing about Indian culture (or any if they practice this) is how we are taught that a book is a holy object even before we ourselves perceive it's utility. Apparently, it is to tell us, and also drill in us, that no matter what era or year comes, nothing can be more beautiful than a book. Never. Even after being made of the most trivial material, it is the most non materialistic things in the world. The godly level of sermon. The salvation in between the heaps of papers.

I thought it will be easier the second time, for the first time I was worse than dead. I wonder if I am weaker than before, or life perceives me strong enough to take it's hit again. How do people prepare for it? Is there a crash course? Or heavens feel the sadistic pleasure in hitting us with the harsh reality of life, and then taking the credit of our enhanced endurance. Should I believe in the power of God and take his blows as blessings? Or? Do I even have another option?

BLOWS OR BLESSINGS?

There were starry night, beautiful evenings, warm sun, and red hued mornings, even before I began perceiving them. They didn't need my recognition to exist and be themselves. I only acknowledged them when I had enough brains to.

We don't need others to recognise us. Let's just be there, exist, be our best beautiful self. And the best ones will acknowledge it as soon as they find their senses.