Today, there is a carpet stuck in my mind. Today is a different day. Today is a different animal.
There are times in one’s life, special times where concepts get turned around. You start to look at your own work differently. You start looking at the mirror in a different way. There had been an injection of fresh faith in your perception. Today is such a day.
Do you ever lie? Have you survived a lie ever? Have you went through a labyrinth of your own, so quick that your own face seemed blurred? Did you embellish that lie so perfectly that it became your reality? Craving about a ghost in your dreams which never existed in your daily life before?
The past always keeps on living near us. It haunts our best days, our worst days alike. It has a way of crumbling our minds. All ‘as if’s, ‘I wish’s, ‘never mind’s, poke around the corner as we hurry for a meeting or eat out lunch or walk a street.
Where are you right now? Really. In that meeting? Or at lunch? Or are you tripping over the clouds like I do? Which clouds I might ask as well. Are there any clouds left for us to trip over? Or there is only the scorching desert sun painting the sky day and night? How about that tree you climbed? A lie, too?
I know there are no lies. Your hump is real. You carry with yourself onehundredtwenty years of pain, alienation and chagrin. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it the way you carry your head when bowing down to pet your cat. Or waiting at that table for someone to enter your hinterland, as you get ready to shoot him an questioning gaze. As you tell fortunes everyday. As if the whole world was a huge cup and our tears were leftover coffee on the insides of this cup. You tell fortunes. As you travel to cities you don’t like.
Why don’t you like them? Because they lack the forests you crave? Or just because they don’t reflect your looks? The looks you expect to come one day, like a shining bright star shooting across the dim sunset sky. There is no such star I’m afraid Dear Tamarik. But you go to them anyways. As you go to places that you know you’ll never come back. Like life.
Dreams are made of cotton candy Dear Tamarik. As people chow them in gluttony they become manure. Manure of generations of gluttons are gathered in our door day by day. Our thoughts, our haste, our irrevocable fight is to clean our doorstep. So we can live on our own cotton candy. Dreameaters we are.
You know where I come from. Do you want to see it? Or do you want to curse at it away? Do you know?
Too many questions Dear Tamarik. When we distill our thoughts through the alembic of trial and tribulation we shall see if we can come up with anything but manure. I’m sure among the surest that your thoughts will turn into little birds of hope. Flying to remind us that you were there, you were fine, you were thinking about good things to come. Mine on the other hand, will go, search, find and feed them wherever they can be found.
Because they are and they always will be all we got.