Brotherhood

That moment when we first cast our glance sideways, in clandestine scrutiny of some hapless prey,willing even the light rays to bend and nourish the sprouts of ill intention, we lose our innocence forever. That moment when we are first moved by the warmth of our mother's embrace, when our childhood sweetheart sprinkles us with the first drops from the deluge we later know as Love, only for us to rapidly become cognizant of Love's steadfast consort they call Hate, we officially cast our lot with humanity, and lose our Way for all eternity. That moment when I first doused the tip of my quill with ink, etching a fragment of my soul onto paper such that it may never be denied again, when I first learnt that there is no hiding place for the heart from the mind, and vice versa, I looked beyond the emptied eyes in the mirror, and saw everyone else staring back. They tenderly caress one another's carcass, longingly hailing the unknowable day of liberation. And from that moment on I have slept, and vowed never to awaken again.

Girl, as you tango

Deep within every mind there is a symphony, its enchanting melodies too often silenced by the futile way we use language. When we subdue beauty in such an eerily cooperative manner, as when Zarathustra thrice forsook his beloved beasts and descended upon ailing humanity from his lofty peaks, it might be best to finally accept that contradictions and ironies govern the economy of our mortal existences. We yearn to be made fools of by forces we scarcely understand, sometimes stretching our ludicrous desires even unto the frontiers of death, embracing that steady ebb of icy lifelessness as if the vessels of our ill conceived passions could sparkle and retain their lustre forever. Eventually the unassuming countenance and parlance of death unfurls our prettiest locks, contorts our sweetest smiles and punctures our smoothest skins with that sickening and unmistakable venom; that invisible mist; that which purloins even the colours from the undying rainbows in our hearts. Be warned then, in all its innocuous charm, death envisions a lonely tango for two to dance. So continue to spew your mundance ironies, when you sashay across the ballroom. Your mind no longer stifles its symphonies, as you tango to your own doom.

How then?

How then, to serenade the pulchritude of the moon, while bearing the scars of the stars' betrayal?

What then, must the caress of success be like, if the lacerations of failure ruthlessly plunder even the keenest senses of touch?

Who then, may restore dignity to he who pursues a falling comet, only to find the starkest reflection upon lake horizon?

When then, will your callousness offer a ripple of compassion, that I may discover solace while I dutifully burn, while I long for salvation's return?

Retrospection

Retrospection and quiet meditation are powerful companions in life. On so many occasions when I feel myself unable to trudge onwards anymore, stubbornly refusing to fling my diminished carcass upon some old rock to peer over a darkened horizon, I only have strength left to conjure a vision - one that situates me at the centre, at the intersection of wheel spokes; reliable fulcrums of memories, sweet and painful alike, extending outwards unto plains and domains that I once treaded upon. No sooner did a figment pass my eyes, before it assails me again. Happily then, there is silence, there is confident anticipation, there is definiteness underlying the vissicitudes. Sometimes the wheel spins, and flings me off to an undefined limbo, a perfected bardo. Then all I need to do is lay back and await the forces of grace to propel me back onto my carousel of fate. Indeed it is easier to view my life, one-third uncannily extinguished, in this way. Not having to strenously peer forward, nor experience the pangs of regret looking backwards. Not dragging a tired consciousness through the years, lest the wounds deepen. But merely standing, spinning, balancing on one heel, letting a myriad of images converge, a stream of dreamy technicolor swell into placid whiteness. These arcs, these recapitulations...equally near, equally far, equally precious, equally painful, equally there. And suddenly, nothing seems too hard to bear.

Lonely Wheel

A bayside promenade; elect your blue Danube
Many old fingers peeling off shreds of corn leaves
Moonlight on water, shimmering a pale yellow black
He strums on the banjo string; yesterday too tight, yet today too slack
And he got all his karmic memories back

A struggling Siddharta, a mantra from the bowels of Brahma
The universe at his core;
Then with a serenity piercing roar
He spins the lonely wheel of Dharma