wanted to pen down the journey in all the bits and peices as they form, so that when joined the patchwork of the path, would be as colourful as it is now, in real time...but then the story of each life thats a saga in it's own right, keeps going on inspite of the bumps and boulders and the gravel and dust...making me feel like a sponge soaking it in, transcending the necessity of understanding and analysis and logic..
the passing smoke makes more of an impact than the passerby,
the clamour of honking makes an unexpected rythm,
the smell of oil and all things burnt out,
along with the perpetually rejeuvenating spirit of mankind,
all of these are the substances that i soak, but does the compulsive osmosis ever work in this big picture, or rather should i call it a long picture akin to the reels of films that they made hullaboo over in the eastman coloured days?
whatever it is to be called, it still is going to remain the same, a chronicle of excerpts of a life more than ordinary and less than perfect, a story that still is going to be a unique art of work, so precious, and as rare as the grey pebble of commonality that we seem to never distinguish amongst the brighter and shinier and smoother stones and gems..
those that we dig in dark and depth, those that we spend our lives trying to earn in small sizes, all the while cutting bits of each other away, turning what could have been the smoothest of ribbons into lesser meant shreds, rippling constantly the tranquil pool to mirror the naughty stream, that laughs and chirps all the while walking away and moving on...
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