Destination: Journey – II

It is a good evening. It isn’t raining but the clouds are full of tease. There is no planned destination, and we aren’t really thinking about the lack of one. Perhaps there is a vague sense, where we would reach; it is the journey which has preoccupied our senses, all the while.

Curving through the folds of the hills, we drive through the beauty that is on offer, without condition, without agenda. Here a beautiful flower, there a wise tree. A naughty stream and some sweet chirping. Over the sagely hill, looking at the inscrutable sea below. Beckoning. Hearts full of joy, minds free from everyday shackles, we move. This is the life we had always imagined.

1195: Rails along a Lake

And, then without warning, it comes upon us. There is no destination.

When we don’t know if there was destination or not, the journey is wondrous; the vague, cloudy, unknown sense of the destination is enough to power the journey, directionless, though it may seem. The realisation that there is no destination, however, takes the life out of the journey.


I often wonder if a journey is an orphan without a destination. I have written about this often, and I have yet to discover.

Can a journey be a destination?


Shut up; Gently Speaking

I have nothing to say.

That’s easily the worst sentence to start a post.

I recently put the petulant twins — anger and outrage — to sleep. Outrage slept easier than Anger, but it did, eventually.

 I still have respect for those who disagree with me, but I know not, if they do, too.




This blinking cursor is intimidating.

I have, perhaps, reached the border of wisdom-land, or of insanity-shire. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never been there.

But it is peaceful for sure — just like the chaotic extremes we now live.



With a difference; one end is true; the other extreme is false.

Events don’t define our lives.

Nothing is permanent. Not even our beliefs. Yet, we hold on to them, for the “security of known misery to the misery of unfamiliar insecurity”.

Sheldon B. Kopp.

In, “If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him.” Paraphrased. Verbatim-ly.

We can speak.



Paralysed beings with active fingers.

Empowered fingers of shallow, rotting minds, to that one side.


I take irony and smother her, and strangle her, with four hands.

She laughs back at me.


She is still laughing.


Because both of us are alive, we know not, who is dead.




The power of the medium is not our strength.

We mistook our ability to use the power of the medium for our ability to use our intellect, imagination, and insight.

Like riding a wave.

It’s the nature of the wave that allows us to ride; all we do, is maintain our balance.




I have nothing to say.

And you should know by now,

I have nothing to say.

PS: This post is right-aligned.

Truth, Lies Beneath

Seek out the Truth.

That, many say, is what we should be doing. And it is a noble pursuit, hell, even necessary some times. The same aforementioned many also say that the truth shall set us free. Which seems like a good state for us to be in — free.

So we march ahead and seek the truth. We attempt to uncover the lies, for, perhaps, truth lies beneath the lies. And we pull off that potential layer of deceit, throw it out, and dig further. All the time discarding the layers we have uncovered.

Or, we take the biggest thing we know and we chisel it, in the hope of discovering the truth. We keep breaking it down, the smallest indestructible unit, perhaps will be the truth.

Some of us find the truth, some don’t.

This post is for those of us who haven’t found the truth. If you have, the rest of this post is not for you.

8973: Beach Walk
The big question, really, is what is the truth? If we do not know what we are looking for, how will we know if and when we find it? What will allow us to recognise it? Someone has to tell us, “Here, this is the truth.” That would allow us to find it. That will allow us to know when to stop uncovering the layers or when to stop chiselling. But it occurs to me (as it may already have occurred to you, my dear reader) that we already know the truth. We have been told! The exercise, then, of seeking truth. is mere academic in purpose. If we haven’t been told, that’s a different world altogether. I have no idea how we will ever know the truth. Perhaps we feel it. But truth isn’t like heat, or cold. I am not sure how we can feel it, or experience it.

It’s the not knowing that gets to us. The silence of unawareness is like a quiet chainsaw cutting through us noiselessly without emotion. It is painful as an experience, but it does not hurt us in a meaningful way. Unless of course, we are aimlessly uncovering or chiselling.

Truth, I think, should seek us out.

I am not suggesting that we be blissful in an ignorant way. We should just allow truth to come to us. Richard Bach, once said, something similar, but about seeking love:

“Flying with the wind, Richard, from town to town, has it occurred to you that’s not a way to find her, that’s a way to lose her?” ~ Richard Bach, in The Bridge Across Forever

In the Pas de deux of assumption and investigation, there is much fatigue.

I am going to wait for the truth to be told.


PS: Of the many blessings I have in my life are my friends. Even if some do not live in the same city that I do. Of the many blessings I have in my life, is that we find time to have lovely conversations. Thank you.

A Non-Post

This one post is difficult to write: The only way I can write it is — to deny content, in the post.

This peasant of a post has only context to offer.

The emotions that wrap around you at a time when you are most vulnerable are the very emotions that cannot be expressed. If you bring your rational head above the water, you could find a few words, scourge the thesaurus, and express in words what that emotion really makes you feel.

This one, isn’t one of that.

Perhaps because it is the confluence of a million smiles and tears. And every intersection of a smile and a tear has a unique meaning, a unique context. It is almost a complete life.

Therefore I confine this one to the only higher abstraction that it is capable of.

With numerical markers like dates, numbers, counts, measurements, and time that unfortunately marks such moments. Unfortunate, because these moments within them hold a cauldron of boiling emotions that cannot be numerically expressed. Our education, comprehension and understanding however has been reduced to a numbskull slave of demanding science and unforgiving mathematics, rather than an a forgiving and an encompassing art.

I agree with you; this is yet another incomplete post!


You will talk with people, people will tell you things. Will that change the way you look at things?


Or will it change the way you look at people?

Crossroads of Time – II

The last time I wrote about the naughty nature of time when it stands us at an intersection, I was thinking two-dimensional. Along comes a comment from Citric Acid, that perhaps it was my folly — not considering the third plane. It gave rise to an interesting, though tangential discussion about choice, consciousness and such. It has been ages since there has been real conversation on any of my posts; I tend to travel the path that the tangent etches.

So be it. Sequels, as we all know, don’t do too well.

But, barrenness.

Often evokes images of sand dunes continuing their recursive sine-waves to the end of the horizon. Almost makes you thirsty. You, comfortable in your living room watching the TV while sipping iced-tea, notwithstanding. A desert is, however, not the epitome of barrenness. You have to see arable land in summer, deprived of irrigation to know barrenness.

My two-dimensional thinking stood wondering, on such a ground, perhaps, when I wrote that post. Parts of me scattered all over the intersection of the three dimensions — knowing only two. Therefore the question, perchance. How was I in situ in a time that hadn’t come? Why was I there when I wasn’t there, as yet? What trick of time was playing that I couldn’t decipher? What was it, that made my sight turn a little bit left, looking back? Citric’s comment was useful. I was, perhaps watching it from a depth (or a height) — the third dimension. The perspective was confounding. The experience was surreal. A plane equally barren.

Window Corner

I wrote a poem that was never inked.

I imagined that fork on the road. In the deepest recesses of my mind. The road was a brown blur, really. It was all barren land. Irregular honeycombs of dry and parched land could never constitute or define or direct paths. Infinite paths emerged from the point that I stood. Yet, diagonals and perpendiculars was all that could see and seek and choose. I missed the third dimension. Maybe, even the fourth. I could make 360deg turn and there would be barren emptiness pouring in my eyes. With each degree, one road was possible — almost one for everyday of my life. And in all those possible choices — I considered only the perpendicularly-geometric two.

Emptiness, I have therefore come to believe, is an oxymoron. Because somewhere in the crack of that irregular honeycomb, somewhere in the third, or the eleventh degree of a turn…

Age of Reflection – II

Some of them have been gentle. Considerate and generous. Almost apologetic. They quoted the number. A measure.

Time, you see is the most fascinating dimension of all, if you can call it that, dimension i.e. I often try to visualise time. Is it passing us by or do we pass it by? Does time happen only because we have this incessant need to count and measure and compare? It does. What did the poet mean when he said, “Time stood still?”

That, for that moment, we didn’t count, measure and compare. That is all there is to it. Nothing scientifically complicated.

Time doesn’t pass us by, we just do things. We just live our lives.

What if time is The Matrix? What if time is a man-made concept, the classic conspiracy theory, the mother-of-all conspiracy theories? (Did I just crack the code, here?) All our behaviour is dictated by time. We sleep at a particular time, wake at one. We behave a way when we are children, young, and different when we are old. We start “behaving our age.” We get tense if we haven’t made money by a particular age, we choose to feel sad, if we aren’t married by certain time. We dread the three years before retirement. We ask for space (we really ask, only for time). We put dates to things. Give time.

As if it was something we possessed.

We plan and fret as if we know how much time we had to live. We almost bring death to ourselves, by the belief that we are getting old and we don’t have time. We crunch the dimension, bring it closer; a death-wish.

As if it was a depleting cash balance.

I live in my own age of reflection where all’s well; still. Lucky me, I believe in it and live by it. I am happy to be the age that I believe I am. It’s difficult, however, to explain your insanity to those that believe in the convention.

All’s well, still!