Fiction fragments #3 - Bridge

He sets of on his long ride by the scenic seventeen mile drive, his 'go to' road of epiphanies. When he particularly feels lost or low he steers his way into what the outdoors has to offer as this exploration leads him to unexplored territories into his own psyche. Lately, he is experiencing a slight dislike about the way things are shaping up in his life. Again, it has to do little with the outside and a lot to do with his insides. He is a man of answers. He has them at the tip of his fingers...answers to every quandary, every dilemma life might present. But even heroes have hindrances on their way. Even heroes cry and complain. Even the strongest of men falter sometimes and their true feelings surface, for once, betraying their fortitude.

And it isn't happening just once. It has become a pattern lately. He finds it so easy to share his joy about the littlest of things - like a man child. He smiles when it drizzles and exclaims that rain makes him happy to the random passerby on the sidewalk and talks to a stranger at Starbucks and tells them how ecstatic he is to meet his niece. Sharing joy comes naturally to him. He likes to spread the smiles and bask in his extrovert overtures. Until the inevitable antihero of life kicks in. Pain. Yikes! What pain? He denies it almost viciously. He is at this juncture in life, face to face with the urge to confess. That's where she comes into the picture. He finds himself blurting it out to her like he had taken a truth potion, something about her triggers in him, the inexplicable compulsion to come clean and tell her his deepest of hurts.  There's a magic about her presence, the nonchalance with which she listens to him, never interrupting or judging, and then saying something that wondrously simplifies his agony. She annihilates all his facades, all his inabilities to process painful emotions with the precision of a skillfully administered antidote. This leaves him flustered enough to look for answers to the vulnerability she subjects him to, and then miraculously dismantles them into non existence.

He sees a bridge in the distance, faded by the dense fog - and he smiles. The epiphany. Happiness might make us think of a hundred people to share it with, but sorrow has the power to reveal our most intense bonds to us. He smiles because at that moment, he learns a valuable truth about himself. A bridge that leads to his treasure when he is struck with the deepest of hurts. 

She flashes in his mind during his every moment of pain, as if she is the only one that could salvage his trauma. Bingo! The solace, the shade, the relief, the solution. Suddenly he feels blessed for all the pains, for they lead them to the most cherished, sacred connection of his heart. A few lucky souls like him experience it.

Pic credit - Chandra Elango

Fiction fragments #2 - Reflect

She's someone who likes to do things promptly. But her promptness in communication is something that makes a stand out. Whether it is a voice mail, email, text,call or an evite- the moment she receives one, she makes an instant effort to respond. She doesn't have a laundry list of pet peeves, but she gets mildly miffed when people take correspondence easily, or worse yet, when they choose to ignore it. The modern day 'read receipts' give her some kind of solace, that the communication has happened as sometimes, that very comfort of knowing it happened and the party in receipt of it chose to ignore it, for whatever reason they had, put her anxiety to ease. She liked to observe things without being judgmental and suddenly finds that she is in the middle of judging herself for this quirk. She  ponders over how her otherwise easy going self takes this particular aspect of human behavior seriously and one day a flash comes to her from nowhere, in the form of a childhood memory.

She remembers being awake to the door bell of her dad coming home and her mom answering it. She shuts her eyes in an effort to go back to bed when she listens to her parents talking in the adjacent room. Her dad's voice sounding strained and low "RS has passed away" He tells her mom to which her mom gasps and exclaims "What?" in utter shock. Her dad's friend in question was someone she heard of but had never seen, but somehow she knew that this man was an important friend in her dad's life.

"He sent me a message through a young boy yesterday and this morning as well. I was busy at work and said I'd show up later" Her dad continues to sound drained. "I had no clue he was dying. Only if I had remembered and taken the message seriously" She hears his voice shake a little and the room falling to a deathly silence. She fails to recollect if her mind went into her usual thinking spiral upon overhearing her parents or if they just stayed silent in the helplessness of the situation.

That event forms a lasting impression on her to a point where she never takes a message easily. She, always, in a deep subconscious, wonders if that friend had something to tell her dad - one last favor to ask, or probably a burden to share which would have made his passing easier. A message that would never be conveyed and  would always be conjectured. she inwardly knew that it was a burden her dad had to drag along whenever he remembers the friend.

She smiles to herself when she discovers the foundation of her obsessive need to respond to every sort of communication, even when her ESP senses a cold caller on the other side of the telephone ring. She doesn't ever want to allow herself to slip into a self wrap that might deny a dear one  or anyone in some sort of need - whether it be a deathbed wish or a mundane favor of picking up kids from school while they lay stuck in the notorious commute traffic or the simple need to say hello to someone close amid a tough day at work.

Life, she discovers, is death lurking around the corner - and an opportunity to alleviate someone's pain might flip into a guilt that creates one's own pain in no time. and she at that very moment, obliterates the distinction between her pain and someone else's - cause from the perspective she chooses to see, they appear to her as the sides of the same coin. 

Fiction fragments #1 - Repurpose

She walks in the garden getting a whiff of the foliage. She halts and bends to snap a leaf off, gently rubbing it in her palms to sniff it. What in the world does this remind me of? A familiar smell perks up her senses to a point where it tricks her to feeling hungry.
"Italian" She whispers to herself, "Parsley!"

Her mind wanders around into the database of her recipes, wondering what she could transform this lovely flavor into, except her taste palette, quiet confined to the finicky familiarity of her native cuisine, rejects the prospects of taking some into her kitchen and whipping up a freshly made 'from the scratch' pasta sauce for instance. She remembers how her sister measures up dried parsley leaves to add to her home made marinara to smear on the pizza crust.

"Too much work for something I might not even taste" she dismisses the idea. But the herb holds her attention. She runs her thumb on a leaf, while gently holding it on her fingers, and smiles to herself.

A recycled glass tumbler holds the fresh cascade of parsley on her dining table for almost a fortnight. She would light her candle next to the herb and gently pluck a leaf to sniff every now and then...this tiny indulgence of her senses acting like a  pleasant punctuation to her daily chores. The leaves fade to an interesting yellow at the edges and the smell dwindles into a milder version as the days flip by. She feels a sense of achievement to have put the herb to some use, albeit unconventional. She realizes that she's slowly becoming an expert at her game - to find 'out of the box' ideas to fit into her pesky rigidity. Sometimes she wonders if a lot of what does linger around in her heart could be revamped this way - if a heart ache could be plucked and arranged into a display, somehow making it an eye candy. If a loss, a void or a suffering could be used to generate similar sense of achievement. She smiles to herself. Sometimes, she could only let the time wither them into subdued, faded versions of themselves - their remains, still burning like embers in some concealed corners of her heart.

"How cool it would be?, If we could feign a suffering into sanctity, a deceit into a delight?"

But for now, the delicate bunch of parsley substituting as a centerpiece of her dinner table is enough distraction for her. Until the next opportunity to repurpose a shrub or a slash presents itself...Then she'll up her ante, and one day, lets hope, that she might transform a deceit into a delight!

Illusions

Through your opaque coolers,

Those bangs that dilute the hazel of your irises

Many masks you sport

Of indifference, joy and intensity

Through the filters that distort

The inmost of your feelings

Through your self depreciating humor

Or exaggerated self worth

Gently shoving an insecurity under the radar

Of an appraising world. 

Through the scars that your camoflauge

As decorations

That mist around your peepers

That disappears before its formation,

Freezing forever in some depths 

Of your unexplored pain points.

Through your machoness

Or your delicate etiquette,

Let me explore

Beyond my five senses

The real deal that lurks beneath.

Come, be my muse

Let me, reveal you to yourself

Distilling all those add ons

Making your being 

Accessible, acceptable, tolerable.

Perhaps, my words would 

Then gather some meaning

Reflecting in your own meaningfulness.

In fond Memory

The word "Kadali" - A Telugu word for the ocean was introduced to me as it happened to be the moniker for a coastal village set in remote AP. My uncle Shri. HariKrishna Mocherla chanced upon this village, owing to his employment in a National Bank. Kadali was very close to my home town, and Uncle Hari and his family used to religiously visit us on Sundays. He was my father's maternal cousin but was probably the most prominent of our extended family that was present in my formative years.

"It is beautiful out there" He used to exclaim with a perpetual twinkle that graced his large eyes. Their dreamy look transformed me to the seashore - a visual I didn't discover in person until I was in middle school and traveled to Vishakapatnam. But somehow, his awe for the ocean made me conjure up pristine sand shores and frothy white waves breaking on my tiny feet. It was probably then, that the nature enthusiast in me took birth. And the lover of words and descriptions.

"Kadali" I used to roll this word in my mouth during episodes of imagination, wondering how it would sound as a name for a little girl or a pet dog that I'd one day adopt. Uncle Hari, thus brought into my life the very valuable source of my imagination along with the many others he had brought into my life. 'Unconditional love' for instance. I used to see him at regular intervals, even when his job took him to the the neighboring states. Our bond cemented and I got see a substantial amount of him and his family when his sister got married in my hometown and we played host to the marriage party. His sense of humor was legendary, his smile - gentle and reflecting every bit of love he had for life. And me, as I would discover later in my growing years.

We used to take the train to Hyderabad together during my high school years there. I always felt like an equal with him. perhaps because of the way he bent down to the level of a teen or he raised me to the level of a matured grown up. His affection never had too much ammunition. Just simple actions and the occasional pat on my back when we met. We used to converse endlessly, often foraging around quotes from Shakespeare, and random lines form Keats and Wordsworth , A subject my grand uncle (Uncle Hari's dad) was an authority in, during his tenure as an English professor. His memories of his childhood gave me glimpses of my ancestors . He had that special smile for me in every family gathering, his eyes searching the crowd as he looked to spot me and bestow upon me, his fatherly love in the most purest, subtlest form I had the good fortune of experiencing.

In one of the many letters he wrote to me, he once mentioned about remembering Harry Belafonte's Jamaican Farewell, as he left me at the bus stop. "I kept looking back to trace you till you were out of sight" he wrote - remembering Harry Belafonte's lines

  “...Down the bay where the nights are gay and the sun shines daily on the mountain top, I took a trip on a sailing ship and when I reached Jamaica I made a stop...
But I’m sad to say I’m on  my way, won't be back for many a day, my heart is down my head is turning around, I had to leave a little girl in Kingston Town"

(The little girl in question was legally an adult then, running her eighteenth year, but the love she felt that day would definitely go down as the top ten 'goose bump' moments in her life)

And then, there were a series of celebrations in the family, including my own wedding. As tradition has it, the Telugu Brahmin brides were carried to the wedding altar in a basket none the less and her maternal uncles would lug her with all their love. Uncle Hari was the one who tugged on to my basket along with an army of my uncles, and as I had these jitters, he bent down and whispered into my ear "You are in for a wonderful ride, trust me and brace yourself"

His prophecy came true in heartwarming ways, as I embarked upon the wonderful ride of growing up in the truest sense, always powered by the tremendous amount of love I received on my path and the perspectives that were shown to me through examples.

He would be the first one to visit me on my every trip to India, dropping in with that wonderful smile of his - not once taunting me for not taking the initiative to visit him. Infact, he never gave me a chance to initiate a visit, cause he was always there even before I got over my lag. He used to bring me his writings, musings and the wonderful, pleasant spirit that left me empowered and utterly loved every single time.

On a particular occasion, I called him after I heard the news of his younger brother's untimely passing. I could, that day, sense the strength of his soul. The way he remembered his brother in glimpses from the day he was born and the discovery of Robin Sharma's book in his brother's room...
He put a graceful twist on mourning. And I discovered more reasons to love this man.

During my last visit to India weeks ago, he was there at the venue of  a family celebration, looking back at me and flashing his smile. We sat together and held hands for the longest time. He updated me about the achievements of his kids and grand kids and looked radiantly content with his life. He brought me an envelope this time around, with printouts of pics he had of me and my siblings - there was a solo photograph of his too, tucked in there - on retrospect, I realize, if it was his way of giving me a piece of him till I tread on this earth, in his absence.

" I cannot believe I am pushing on seventy" , he said to me - that were bits of the last conversation we had. I sit here now, with an inexplicable feeling, somewhere in between a sense of deep love and irreplaceable loss - but then I brace myself and trust him that a wonderful ride is ahead of him now and until our eternal spirits cross paths again, I draw strength from his example, his love and the positive legacy he left back for the fortunate likes of me.

Thank you for existing Uncle Hari, for not just talking the talk but also for walking the walk and loving me like you loved your own children. I'll always count you among my biggest of blessing and I hope, I had in some small, insignificant way, reciprocated the love you had for me.

I dig into my wedding album today and look at this picture in a new light. Actions, always speak louder. Words are lousy translations. 

Pain Killers

She sits on the picnic bench, clenching something tightly in her hand. "Theory of relativity" she whispers to herself and waits for him to arrive.
She had met Mike long back. They often find interesting rendezvous spots by accident. As in they bump into each other like they are meant to bump into and then they sit and ponder about the maladies of life. Today is different. Today is planned. Today is thought through.

She glances at her watch, her looks migrating lazily from its face to the jogging trail leading to the picnic bench. He appears on the end of the trail, his cotton tee stretched against his defined biceps. He approaches her and halts his run, gasping for air while settling next to her.
"Runner's high!" He exhales and throws his hands out in the air. "So tell me my friend, what is it that we cogitate about today? "

"How are you doing" she esquires.

"Fantastic, and you?"

She doesn't respond. Instead she stretches her open fist and offers him what she'd been clenching to all this time.

"What have we got here?" "Medication?"

"Of sorts"

"Interesting. To cure which of my ailments, may I ask?"

She smiles her brightest. "Pain killers, meant for my pain, not yours"

"Gulp them all down the throat I say" He jokingly opens the cork of the tiny bottle and looks inside. Little, colorful capsules sport smile emojis.

"Wait, wow!" "Happy pills alright, would I get into trouble for popping them in?" He continues to jest around.

"Open" she says. "Pull them apart"

He discovers tiny little notes tucked into each capsule, tied meticulously with a golden wire.

 She looks at him intently. He unfolds one in a silence that seemed to have deciphered her cryptic code language.

"Eighty six" she says. "Days since we last spoke"

He lets out a amusing chuckle. "Donate your brains for research buddy. Now I have eighty six messages in a bottle, ahem, capsules, where, Pray, do you come up with such original methods of communication? "

"One a day pills. stuffed with all that needed to be said, taken with food to cure my blues"

He reads a note out loud   "Ah, the things we hopelessly misconstrue" He pauses and looks at her.
"Are all of them going to be a maze into your psyche or did we get any direct in some of them?"

"Like you need me to get direct. Don't you read my mind like a book?"

"Ah, well, let me complete this life's little tidbit then, the way you have meant it. "Ah, the things we hopelessly misconstrue - we guise insecurities, selfishness, even lust as love"

She looks at him with a straight face and  smiles. "Almost close. I meant to say, we guise all kinds of bullshit as love"

"Ever considered giving a Ted talk about 'Eighty six ways of inflicting the joys of depression upon yourself?"

"Shut up" her face blooms a tender smile. "These are anti depressants"

"These aren't"

"Then?"

"As far as I can see, there is only one antidepressant, and that's yours truly"

"Very funny" She mocks him. "But, true"

She holds his hand gently and smiles again.

"Read another one" She prompts him.

He unfolds another note, clears his throat and reads "Life is a balance...."

"Not fair...one more phrase that needs to be complete. Let's see - Life is a balance between Malcom Gladwell and John Greene?"

She lets out peals of laughter "Now read one more"

"What hurts you blesses you - Rumi"

"Oh not fair, this is a complete quote...wait a minute, is this a hint at something?"

"Don't get ideas. Look at how puny I am, and I don't mean anything literally as you have known me during these past 2000 years"

"Time for new mirrors, new glasses, new scales or all of the above"

She laughs again..."See, I told you, pain killers"

"Someone's pain is someone's pleasure, someone's trash is someone's treasure" He laughs out loud, and adds "Figuratively of course"

She holds his hand again - "Do you know what Sadhguru says the most powerful human contact is?"

"What?"

"This"- she gently tightens her grip on his hand.

The dusk deepens around the corner while their hearts lighten in each other's company

Fiction inspired by true events. 

In Memory

Let me take a moment
To mourn the gone
Oscillating between
Feeling lost and found
Dead and alive

Let me shead a tear
To drown this pain
Washing away
The many memories
Carved into my soul

Let me let go
Till it drifts
Then chase it
To grab it and hug it
Close to my heart.

Let me live this sorrow
Guised into a smile
Feeling the hurt
Every breath
Cause it takes
A heart wreck
To get a grip
Of unconditional love.

Day 26 - Z for Zephyr

Ride, this one

Amid fields of musings

Exclamations, interjections, Gasps

Tears, smiles, pains

Curated moments

Etched deep into the being

Like tattoos - intricate, interwoven

Permanence inflicted on to the flesh

Worn like medals of survival.

This mortal image

Bearing the weight of the spirit

Shackling its scope

Treading through terrains of turmoil

The end all, the destiny

Mocks in the distance

Like a mirage.

What amounts of this trek?

A revelation perhaps,

Zephyr of hope

Breezing through the maze of dispair

Incarnate in subtlety

Gently easing the many scalds

Zephyr of love, of compassion

Alleviating the brutal blows

Of a battle named Life.

Pic Courtesy - Chaithanya Kanni

Day 25 - Y for Yearning

(A fresh perspective on midlife crisis)

We all have our rooted passions, and these are not the ones that come and go...I am speaking about the ones that probably sprouted in you while you were being manufactured in the mother's womb. For instance, I loved words for as long as I can remember. And trust me, I remember like an elephant. (And no, there is no subtle form reference here, though on second thoughts, it might look like there is) Any new, novel, alien sound that traveled to my eardrum made it to a permanent camping space in my mind. The next obviously logical thing was to put them to use and thus my yearning to write was born. I glorified words all my life. Made them my center stage. I flattered myself while playing with them with narcissistic aplomb, never getting enough of my own expression and then tricking myself into believing that I am here to change the face of articulation and create master pieces. Life happened then and things were put in perspective. Now I look at my works as mediocre at their best and barf inducing at their worst and I mean it with all my sincerity. Not an ounce of false modesty, I swear (And I do not swear (figuratively or literally ;-)) often) Grin.

And this isn't the point anyway, of this ponder of mine. So I'll not digress and get to the point. The other day, I was looking through the window of my nook to spot what looked like Godzilla's shoe boxes constructed in redwood, cramped into our modest Northern California backyard, if you know how that looks. For a moment I thought It was my rampant imagination, but  to get a grip on what I just saw, I walked out to be greeted by Aurturo, our ever smiling gentleman of a gardener armed with his power drill, putting together another plank over the Godzilla shoe box - and yes there were more than one of the shoe boxes, to a point where the front yard had one too, to the side and  my respite in CA suburbs, those ravishing Hydrangeas were re-potted into cumbersome, industrial grade planters and appointed around the Almond tree in the front. So you know, aesthetics don't amount to much when some passions are raging.  At this point I didn't know what to react to or what visuals to process. The strip of our green grass, that was the nature lover's other respite in the cramped CA suburb, quiet literally bit the dust while piles of what smelled like a chicken coop married to horse stable smelling dirt was slathered on it.
Voila - and I meet our new vegetable beds. I thanked my lucky stars that my reactions are often slow and controlled or I'd have probably wailed and passed out in the combined effect of the visual horror and the accompanying aromatherapy effects of the compost rich potting soil. All these years of knowing and accurately mapping the man of the house, I resisted the urge to call him and demand answers for destroying the last trace of our carpet grass in the side yard.  Instead, I tried to condition my mind into reminding myself how this guy loves plants probably a tad bit more than or as much as he loves me. A part of me didn't want to confront him and ask him to pick between the vegetable beds or the spouse perhaps out of the fear of rejection. LOL..that was a joke. But you get the drift. I never asked him what qualities in me impressed him, but some of the many endearing qualities of this man are his love for plants and animals. He had this perfectly tended-to collection of succulents when we first met, doing their exotic display to entice some people to a point of no return. And that's how I got on to this road of no return and while treading on it, I  try not to scream when I feel like it , reminding myself that what writing is to me is what gardening is to him. The only primary difference being that this man despises food with a vengeance. Of course don't count ice cream as food and no, the self proclaimed epicure is yet to explore the territory of home made ice cream.

So I made peace with the fact that his midlife crisis is unfolding as an eyesore in the backyard and was secretly thankful of my own invisible counterpart that unfolded in some secure corners of my brains - this love for juvenile fiction. John Green to be specific. Ahem, we'll leave it at that. I promise I won't divulge more of that love or it might put the backyard stink to shame ;-)

So I now resign to my limitations and wait for the late garden to sprout, bud and bloom so that those artichokes, asparagus, cocktail mint, lemon verbena and gourmet baby beets make their appearance in my gastronomic adventures that would be devoured by none. I say none because my plane Jane palate never went beyond the basic south Indian vegetarian fare and I doubt if the man has a palate to begin with. But it is what it is. Passion is passion. There is no ambition attached to it. There is no counting investments and estimating the lucrative benefit alongside passion. That would be blasphemy to look for benefits out of our callings. Elon Musk started Space X to go to Mars. He cared less about getting famous or rich. That is 'Yearning' for starters and we have that in abundance in this household. It flows in balderdash on a virtual space dubbed Blah Blah or it makes a literal manifestation in larger than life proportions in a non existing backyard. It is how life is supposed to be. You'll never get it. Or get it right. We write, we plant, we read, we reap, we stumble, we fall, we pull ourselves up ...and we repeat. And with yearning as a companion, we enjoy every bit of it.

 And I apologize to Mr. Musk for obvious reasons ;-)

Pic courtesy - Dhiren Shan ( to represent my own imagination of how the man of the house imagines his humble garden;-))

Day 24 - X for XOXO

(A Remembrance)

The first time I met him I was barely an adult, newly wed in the land of the free and the brave. He was wheelchair bound, voluntarily retired from his high profile job and in the US to get treated for his rare back problem. He was tall when he stood up, lean like and athlete. His eyes piercing through his bifocals and the flush on his flawlessly translucent skin gave in more than his words. This silent, brooding man caught my attention. We exchanged the pleasantries, the customary ones that the younger generation exchanges with the older. 

Then I met him again. His back maintained its status quo. I was moved to my soul when he and his wife showed up for my kid's first birthday in Hyderabad. The venue had steep windy steps and God knows how he made it up there with his catheter and crutches. His silence maintained his status quo as well. I walked to him, tried to make eye contact while he looked away and smiled. We exchanged a dialogue without eye contact. Unable to express my gratitude in the scope of the non verbal communication, I held his hand for a second, the warmth of his spirit radiated into his ageing hand. Then, perhaps a soul connection was made. What followed was a bond that nourished my essence. 

We became pen friends. Or keypad friends. Due to the time difference, we used to wake up to each other's emails often. It is probably something to do with men and how they find it near impossible to process painful emotions, forget about admitting them, that his emails were always very abstract or mystic. It took a little time,  but somehow, miraculously, the friendship between us transcended a generation, age and gender gap. He used to be a regular at my blog - praising, critiquing, suggesting ways to improve my expression. Parenting advice, life guidance, love for finer things in life, fears, hopes- you name it, we covered it.  Once in a while, when I got fortunate, he used to write me stories with such subtle metaphors - like offering me a road map into his physical struggle or resulting emotional turmoil. All through this journey of ours, I was always spellbound to see his yearning to smile and help others as a superhuman soul quality. His empathy was soul stirring. His integrity as a father of three accomplished kids, a supporting sibling to his sisters after his parents' untimely passing, a true blue soulmate husband and most importantly a human being taught me invaluable lessons in life. Silence was the weapon in his struggle. A yearning to be useful to others was his religion. He taught me purpose without ever preaching about it. He is perhaps the most influential example I stumbled upon in my adult years. 

His every bit of communication became a treasure hunt for me. It made me more nuanced with my understanding of the world and its inhabitants. The way he stood by his kids and spouse amid his own challenges is the stuff that true,unconditional love is made of. The way he gave a part of himself to me through our communication is what I count among my most valuable blessings. If I ever become a quarter of the human being he was, I'll consider my life as a success.

When I sit and meditate on life, He is among the first glimpses that come to me. He had this endearing quirk of communicating in metaphors that gave the 'let's crack this and look for the unsaid' side of me a huge kick. Our conversations covered it all - with such subtle humor, wisdom and warmth and a connection that was probably a sum total of my good fortune.

Every time we drive by the interstate 580, I skip a beat breathing in the enormous landscape punctuated with towering windmills. As I approach them, I gape at their presence and purpose. Uncle KK used the moniker KKTurbine for his email. My spirit senses a whip of his nearness and I smile. They say we are not here for ever and we should work on leaving a legacy that lives on. Sometimes, the legacy we leave back might not be visible or palpable. It might bring in a whole entire meaning to someone, somewhere. If I may dare say so, I am a little fleck of the legacy uncle KK left back and If I dare assume, I hope I'll do my part in leaving it for someone, somewhere and do my part in letting his touch on the earth to linger around a little longer.

XOXO Uncle KK - Thank you for unraveling the meaning of life, love and living. With gratitude, your soul kid.

Pictured - Interstate 580. 

Day 23 - W for Words

There is a dark room

I ponder in

With an open window

Sneak previewing the outsides

I clutch to the railings

my view cutting through the light

Random musings from my mind arise

Some silly, some wise.

I stretch my hand out

To catch a thought 

Tinker it around and call it a plot

I use the blueprint and building blocks

Of words and insights

Pleasures and plights.

My window that opens when all the doors close

Flooding into my spirit morose

The world unfolds its many shades

My insides dance as ideas cascade

What amounts of this life?

This madness this strife?

I cast aside those many cares

Lost in translations

Those sightings on the other side of the grill

Rain drops, sunshine, morning fog

Reincarnated into giddy words.

Tangled existence simplifies in the catharsis

Lending a trellis to the many reflections

Vines of revelations thrive and bloom

And magically bring to my insides

That luminance

From the other side of my window to the world.

With many thanks to Chandra Elango for the pic inspiration.