Monday, August 8, 2011


I call it harsh, may be hard life if you can see. Nothing’s permanent I know but I ought not to stop. The huge trees tossing in the storm make me want to go dreaming again. The winds will transport me back to my land I assume. And why the heck should I not assume?  It’s all in my fists- tiny delicate fists, enclosing my whole self, enclosing each and every soul in the universe.
 What would it be to unfurl yourself at the pinnacle of a mountain, cold and deathly? This would be it. This is what driving me to run. Knock to the winds, ask them for the passage and start! Who am I stop myself? Who can stop me anyways? It’s all in the fists. Nobody is my master, nobody is my slave.

I do fear the summit, being a lone ranger, looking for a companion. I suppose everybody fears. But what cannot be mine now will never be mine. I open my wings at last, to soar.
Much out there to be tasted. 

1 comment:

Blasphemous Aesthete said...

Don't be alone then. Have a companion. As Mc Candless (The name might be misspelled, I did not confirm before writing) realized, happiness is worth, when shared.

And don't stop dreaming either, it's the fodder for the thoughts that would keep us upright while the lone ranger climbs to unfurl herself on the summit?

Blasphemous Aesthete