Rise, don't fall.

Is love a big ditch? Is it a drain? If it is not, then why do you fall? Why do you fall in love? Why can’t you rise in love? Have you ever thought why do you fall in love and not rise? Can you say? No you cannot, you are already fallen in love or failed in love or fighting in love or doing something or nothing in love! But it’s not that difficult to rise in love. To rise in love you need no lover, you need only you; you should know to love you.  It is almost similar to grooming yourself or to be in the right shape trimming what wasn't needed. You cannot rise in love unless you love yourself. Once you love yourself, you rise to your dreams and would further rise to your life! When you realise, you are rising in love you get a magical wing which would take you to uncharted skies of infinite colours you haven’t seen.  Magically (truly) your life will rise with love and love with life making you a being of love; to love and to be loved. Now that’s the bliss of rising with love. Rise, don’t fall. Build a bridge over the ditch. Love.

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Faith wars.

It’s all about faith. In faith you can do anything. You motivate within or pray to your god or to a football with staunch belief, you can do whatever. The problem is that when the so said, everybody – the ‘self’ motivator, the god lover and the football lover become overconfident in their faith and try to make it as their religion or a ‘you-can-do-with-me’ clan; the happiness and the peace until break. From here on, faith creates fights and wars. Isn’t in a similar world are we all living in? 

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Blink. I can see.

Unable to leave my glade in the greens, I stand aloof thinking about the disappeared blue butterflies. Coiled and recoiled inside a silky cocoon-learning to shrink before my birth– I lived as the tiniest of moth which never learned to fly. Before night sparkling blue butterflies had vanished to nowhere– flapping and rambling- they always flown around me. They gave me the first note of catharsis hymn or a melody of purification which still cleanses my languid self in the path searching deep repose and love.  I had seen them as blotches of twirling blue - flickering in accordance - spangled over the dark veil of night. They taught me to see beyond existence, to connive love, to switch life between real and surreal.  They taught me to see being blank and to listen being oblivious. To tread the way blue butterflies had vanished, I know, I really don’t want to venture out anywhere. But soon, I’ll leave my glade. I know they’ve bloomed as blue roses where my lady moth lives. Blink. I can see.
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Circles

Circles all around.
Circles made of clouds.
Hallows and silver streaks illuminate its wavy circumference.
Amorphous and shaky until yesterday, dreams too turned into blazing red circles– today they rained red.
Circles of confusion.
Circles of oneness.
Circles of love.
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അറ്റം.

ബിയറോഴിച് വളര്‍ത്തിയ കരള്‍വാടി ചെടിയുടെ വേരിന്‍റെ ഒരറ്റം എന്‍റെ പ്രണയം. കിലുങ്ങി-ചിരിച് കണ്ണിമാ-വാടിയ മെലിഞ്ഞ പെണ്ണിന്‍റെ മൌനം തൊട്ടു നില്‍കുന്ന ചുണ്ടില്‍ വീണു കിടക്കുന്ന അവളുടെ മുടിയുടെ അറ്റം, മറ്റൊരറ്റം ;-)
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Being a Wheel.

To constantly whine and wail.
To take all wallops.
To be driven by an unknown.
To be helpless.
To wobble.
To grunt all the way I tread.
I don't want to be a wheel.
But, sadly I'm one.

Being a wheel, I want to roll back to the dark cave.
To see the cave man who cut out a piece of round wood and rolled, far before Civilizations grew or Gods born.
To be along with my forefathers who pedalled the giant wheel of irrigation and self humiliation to feed Royal paunches; to see the tiny bubbles of sweat - in which thousands of tiny suns shone- they wiped out of their forehead, working under the blazing summer sun.
To tell my forefathers - We are still slaves of rich and I have waned to a rubber wheel reined by some.

To see a world I would never have been.
To beetle off all repugnant penance. (Done to me. Can I ?)
To leave my skin-marks on the roughest of turfs.
To finally deflate myself before thrown out of the hub.
To be the fuel to a rebellious fire.
I want to be a wheel.
Sadly, unambiguously, I'm one. 

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Center of the world.

Aren't we all struggling to be in the center of the world? Aren't you? I believe the dingy room in which I live - with all my flabbergast-ions and suffocating bewilderment s' - as the center of the world. I believe, it's the place from where every boundaries begin or historic wars and civilizations have had begun. It's the place from where poles are given its latitude; clumsy complex networks of road-rail-sea routes begin. It's from my room, the great Travelers, Mariners and Explorers started their voyage. But you constantly argue it all began from yours. We fight. We Argue. Yet we all know: center is everywhere; we live fighting to own -- the center of the world! We all are striving hard to find the center of our-own-self-drawn equators. Aren't we?

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