I wonder if I would like to live the journey of the rain. There is a freedom in its fall, direction, unity and ends up moistening every form with its healing touch.
Or, would I like the journey of a road that bears the heat of the sun, the beat of the rain, the screeches and the weight of its passers by, but shares a glossy affection saved from a long time only to be spent away in a moment.
Or, would I like the journey of the street light that finds no onlooker through the day and whose existence remains overpowered, yet it finds no rest when it is the pitch black night just so that it can bring to life, everything that it surrounds.
Or, do I continue to be in my own journey that lets me be in awe of every other journey which I come across.
An empty seat awaits your presence and when you occupy it, I will be rowing you silently through an ancient route. You sit there on the other end of the boat and look around. As you will find me absorbed in rowing you choose not to ask me that one question and you keep it for later. Then when you gaze the grasslands and the infinite sky a shimmering golden breeze kisses your face and you feel strange. For you know this breeze and this recollection will make you feel like you know every pixel of what you see and you know every grain of your feeling. Like you know everything about everything here for ages. Like something is speaking to you and waiting for you to break your silence. Yet, your silence is your only language, your only means to express. You look at me and I raise my head. In the moment, something in us knows that a word will be too much. Your question drops. And, a wordless journey on an ancient route goes on..
What is the ground to the grass, water to thirst, mother to its baby, tree to the birds, sky to the stars and the sun to the moon?
Is it that one is and therefore the other becomes? May be.
But then, how would we acknowledge ground without grass, would there become a mother without being a baby, what is water’s value without a thirsty, a tree without the fluttering birds, how do you realize there is sky without the stars or know that sun exists at night without the moon?
There is no cause and effect here. Just the inseparables perceived from different spaces and at different times.
In this funeral pyre,
Through the space between the logs
That I have been placed within,
I see the faces
Of people known to me.
Their faces made visible
In this dark new moon night,
By the fire’s light.
The fire that is glorious,
Whose flames have now reached
Quite a height.
My body is burning intensely,
Like would a fuel.
“Perhaps, trying even makes for unhappiness.Perhaps, all the din of my desiring has kept the bird from my shoulder. I have tried so long and so loud after happiness. I have looked so far and wide.
“I have always imagined that happiness is an island in the river. Perhaps, it is the river. I have thought happiness to be the name of an inn at the end of the road. Perhaps, it is the road. I have believed that happiness was tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Perhaps, it is here. Perhaps, it is now. I have looked everywhere else.
The pain of Deciduous, with the winter setting in, was growing deep. This was its first winter since it stepped into adulthood. It had been shedding cherries, flowers, and leaves, here and there, all through its adolescence and in a way has been aware of their seasonal departure. This winter, however, it was losing them at a tremendous rate and volume, so it thought. It didn’t know what was wrong but was certain that something was. It had been nourishing its kin too well. It spread its roots into every possible inch of the rock and far into the soil to pull water and food for all its beloved. So much and more only to find them part this way.
Loispiration in a nut-shell is an embodiment of inspiration here to give you an almost daily dose of critical thinking, hope and enlightenment. To change your perception on societal issues and help you point the mental development torch directly on yourself.