as another year begins...

standing between an end and a new beginning
a moment struggles for its identity
the twilight,
a brief interlude
weighed down with indecision
to be part of completion or initiation
or be there just like that
without conforming to one or the other
holding on to its own
in the sea of time
stealing a drop
and giving it its own name....

its funny how 

a beginning or an end is celebrated
as if what constitutes totality
is immaterial
in fact, the celebration too is cyclical...
its part of the given,
the conformists uphold it
the rebels ignore it
again in reflexes
and the moment in between passes unnoticed...

but, without this small moment
holding its turf between two extremes
would the cycle be complete?
it is a pause in motion
a breath that holds as one lets go
of what was held so long
and reaches out one more time
forward...
again, as a reflex;
whoever said ahead is where the destination is...
no, not for me
i aim to thrive 

in the moment in between
the end and a new beginning...
not conforming,
not aligning,
not giving in...
holding on to my own
trying to stamp
a drop
in the sea of time....

Vagaries of a fleeting mind…

Books neatly lined or provocatively angled…

Words commoditized and marketed

with élan or greed or both;

trying tricks new or time tested…

Luring, appalling, attracting nonetheless.

Eyes scanning the titles…

one after the other,  and the other…

Reading, registering, trying to decipher.

Some titles beckon

I pick up one and read the back cover

And about the author

Looking for something to read…

To know…. To get absorbed in

And move on… to the next and the next

Similar tales, known premise

Experimentation with a theme

Already innovated beyond recognition

Advice, prescriptions, perceptions

A dozen a dime…

Every time

Each book cries for novelty

And dies on the shelf

Words jumble and then fall in line

It has been like that

All the time

There is a pattern to the madness

Making sense always follows

A mad rush… an urgency to just do

Something, anything, everything

Just let go, give in to the thought

The nagging, recurring nudge

To follow what comes as an urge

Daunting, demanding, unrelenting

Its Christmas…

Like every year… exactly on the same date.

Funny. That’s how it is. That’s how it should be.

Or, should it? Never mind.

So, its Christmas

And there is a Christmas Tree, tall and elegant and all decorated

Like it was the year before

Like it will be the next year as well, and further…

There is comfort in repetition, perhaps

Symmetry, uniformity, regularity

Living life in practiced lines….

The desire to find without seeking

To reach a destination; minus the travel…

Second hand experiences…

Passed on as wisdom

From one to the other, to the other, and the other…

Living on proxy

Borrowing dreams, leasing vision

Dividing each day

in bite sized pieces of programmed existence

routine…  mundane… deemed exciting

originality in the confines of boundaries

set by limitation of imagination

of few, some, a handful

such as those who

experimented with truth and lived  a lie

or, got enlightened under a tree

or, confirmed to rules and exemplified timidity

What a pity!!

Its not a revolt, or a revolution

That I seek, don’t mistake!

No, not at all

Red has faded to black to grey

There is no renaissance beyond the horizon

Not that one is needed anyway

Its working, this world

As it is

Round, flat, oblong or shapeless

Spinning and circling

Round and round and round

habitually

surviving deceit, mistrust, cynicism.

Like I do,

Despite the vagaries of a fleeting mind!