Glass Ballerina

Through half closed eyes, I saw wind rippling through the tiny spider web spun between two sturdy blades of grass. I tried to focus on the beads of moisture glistening on the web's silky strands. Every breath wheezed in brought with it a strong smell of freshly dug earth. It felt comforting in a way. I hung on to that familiar smell. It seemed to lessen the fear of the alien feeling spreading in my chest. My lungs seemed to be filled with countless tiny shards of glass and any effort of movement slashed my insides with deliberation that I would stop as immobile as before. I could hear the distant and muffled sounds of a raging battle. Shouts, yells, war cries, monotonous drone of fired rounds. Sometimes falling rockets and grenades made the ground tremble.

"tamur..." a whisper.

I forced my eyes open. Did someone call my name? did I close my eyes?...I was cold.

"I cannot let myself sleep" I thought. I did not know why I had to stay awake but it was an instinctive reflex to try and keep my eyes opened. It seemed important somehow. But it was so comfortable. To close my eyes. It seemed to lessen the cold. "Maybe for a little while" I thought; my eyes already closed.

"tamur..." a fleeting whisper.

It was a raspy voice. It was ancient. It commanded reverence. I was scared. My eyes darted back and forth to the extent of their vision trying to find the caller. "It's the wind playing tricks" I tried to reason with myself. "Or maybe your mind is making it up" I argued. In the back of my mind I knew I have never heard that voice and it was too significant to be conjured up or be a hallucination. What is it then? Who is it?. Now frantic I wanted to move. I wanted to face the caller with my weapon drawn. I willed myself to move, to grunt or squeal, to jerk and tremble. Anything to keep the invisible vulture off of me. But I couldn't. Fear spread like an icy glacier, chilling the core of my being.

I could sense someone all around me, or something. It slithered on the wind, closing in on me...

Is this the end?

but the deed is not done

This must not be the end

Glory is yet to be had....

A recurring dream from what seems like a long time ago. The time of glory came and went. On the brink of destiny all that was permitted was a compromise, a minor victory, a small battle won. Legends were constructed and immortal bonds were formed. Differences were settled in the most primitive forms of conflict known to man. In a remote region, where existence of life is not particularly important to the civilized world, battles were fought for the preservation of honor and respect, protection of values and creeds, to keep ablaze the fires of feral vengeance for it has long since replaced blood as sustenance in our veins.

"So many roads at my feet..."

Fate is constructed as a labyrinth. Freedom and perfection of choice does not affect the absolute outcome but only helps in achieving it. Which means it still leaves room for the manifestation of virtues and vices, either of which can assume greatness and exude revolutions. So while choosing from the choices laid out and stumbling towards the pre-planned grand finale', what is the significance and relative importance of wants, wishes, hopes, dreams and desires? our better worlds? the ones we require in order to make it all 'better'?. Who's to say if the better formed in our minds is in fact better?. Once formed, many among us do not stop and question the legitimacy, logic and certainty of our assumptions regarding our own wants and desires, especially not at the time of their formation and deployment. It's there, Solid. An Idea. An Image. An Ideal. So once formed, this 'better' is not questioned, but pursued. After beginning the chase, it's logical basis are never questioned. So what if our 'better' is not really better than the one chosen for us? what if we're forcing it on the actual 'better' which is imposed by, drawn by the Creator of the Labyrinth in the first place?

However, we must always wander off and explore but our cravings for 'better' must be consistently prodded and cautiously observed.

Better is relative.

Better is just a perspective.

Some events or incidents shape lives indefinitely. There's no escape from it. Like Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. Once a man bore the ring, he carried the weight forever. This life is too short to forget some stories and let go of some memories. There’s no glory in death. The sham of immortality led many a great men on impossible quests so the names may be remembered forever. However, the notion of immortality’s equivalence to an immortal name was an obvious paradox overlooked by most that were driven by an insatiable desire of continued existence. Heroes, warriors and leaders, immortality has afflicted great men since the birth of legends and stories.

A leader masters his values. This also makes him the Aristotelian tragic hero of his own tale. His virtues that require reciprocation, fail to realize its absence in others due to their own severity. Or even if they understand the lack of reciprocation, they overlook it for the same reason; confounding his senses and hiding his enemies.

“...what did I tell you about negativity?”

I understand how pessimism operates. Negativity breeds negativity. But how long do you shy away from harsh realities under your umbrella of positivism? What if even after analyzing and understanding the bare bones of this world and the people in it, even after gleaning profound knowledge of the human psychology and thought process, you still come to the same conclusion that no matter what you are marked, you are the chosen one and that you will tread the paths laid out for you, you will chose from the choices made available, you will be devoid of permanent comforts and will have no familiar and you will be nothing but an unparalleled master of chaos and destruction. So if that's what has forever overshadowed your mortal memories; starry nights, sunshines and rainbows are just not going to be enough.

It's not negativity, it's not pessimism or self pity. It's not a plea. It's a statement. It's realization of finality.

Finality. Usually associated with age, is it just the termination of mortality or something more? is it only an omen of impending doom? approaching fate? inevitable divine imperative?. I believe it is more. It's the acceptance of a flawed existence. It's coming to terms with the hard coded realities in your genes. It's an old man in a guitar shop smiling at me and telling me he's looking for one final guitar. It's relief for the eternally aggrieved. It's a peculiar trait of candid leaders and warriors.

With you, I danced a dance slower than time

Faster than light

your molten incandescence burning, etching memories,

eternal and immortal,

You burned and melted,

twirled and twisted,

Oblivious to the existence of I,

who, nameless and faceless, watched

in wonder, felt in awe,

with you,

glass ballerina

I danced my first dance

My halo chokes me as I end my days alone. I have longed for affections. I have craved for care. I have dispensed it all but received none. I shared and revealed. For a while even pity was acceptable, it was better than nothing. But I discovered that it was all a bit more cruel than I had originally anticipated. I knew the mutation in my genes, the evil of tragedy in my blood, but I hoped.

There's no one.

So I stop now. I've already named my emotions little. I've already demeaned the tale. Henceforth, none will hear or see anything but a facade.

Maybe its different...

in another life.

Snowflake

I stole a moment…in the dimly lit room looking over the green monotony of Long Island through a huge glass wall. This night was different. It was not like the countless others spent in that room looking through the glass wall at tiny specks of light dotting the infinite darkness.

She was there. I felt good, better than I had felt in days. I could feel the absence of agony even when I recounted the tale looking deep into those beautiful eyes. Those wondrous pools of blue abyss seemed to drain away eons of pain and hopelessness. I could not explain it. I did not know how my soul surged every time I looked at her, every time she said something, every time she laughed.

And then I stole a moment. She slid her head on my shoulder and nothing mattered anymore. The screen in front of us blurred and sounds issuing from the speakers diminished. I rested my cheek against her soft hair. Every breath I drew in smelled of meadows and sunshine. In that moment I was happy.

I stole that moment. I stole it and locked it with some others from the past…my little box of happiness. There’s not a lot in it. There won’t be much more either. It has familiar faces, always smiling and laughing. It has warmth and comfort. I open it in the darkest moments of misery and torment. Moments when I just cannot push the memories away, when I fail to deceive myself of the truth. I open it and I’m surrounded by smiles I recognize. I’m with the ones who loved me ferociously. It helps in those weak moments.

The next time I open it, it’ll have a beautiful Snowflake.

I will have that moment for as long as I exist. Long after my curses land her on a path away from mine. Long after I’m back where the land is red with blood and faces distorted with violence. Long after I have won or lost my war.

I will open the box and I’ll be in a dimly lit room overlooking the green monotony of Long Island through a huge glass wall. She will put her head on my shoulders and I’ll rest my cheek against her soft hair. Every breath I draw will smell like meadows and sunshine.

And for the briefest of moments, I’ll be happy.

Nimmi...

She gazed in the water, speaking slowly. Her face lit with a thousand shimmering ripples. Wind plays with her hair and a few strands of gold get caught in the corner of her lips.
I fight the urge to reach out gently and free them.

Choice...an illusion? or a consciously epitomized empirical fact leading to existential and tangible outcomes emphasizing the singularity and isolation of human experience in a hostile or indifferent universe? Much has already been said on the subject but the neighboring and parallel factors are seldom discussed. Is choice relative? Much like everything else? What are its limits? How is choice weaved in the fabric of life and death? In the time-space continuum? In the grand scheme of the universe?. More importantly what are conscious and unconscious choices? When is choice not present? or not granted? What choices are pre-made by a supernatural superhuman force? And if the preceding proposals are taken to be true, doesn't choice become a paradox in itself? Isn’t the concept or the very idea of choice rendered void?

We all chose the life we lead. Is it a conscious choice? for most of us most of the time I believe it is not. There is a choice between a life of happiness and a life of meaning that we all make. And chose between the two we must as they are parametrically opposed and can only exist as independent entities. To be truly happy one must live absolutely in the absolute present; carpe diem. In a life of meaning one always wallows in the regrets of the past and obsesses about the future thereby eliminating the factors needed for the existence of happiness.

I do not remember making a specific choice between the two, but I find myself living a life of meaning. Would I have made a different choice if I could? probably not. Sometimes the meanings gleaned are worth the absence of happiness, only sometimes. But some losses were too valuable to be suffered. Some sacrifices too grand for a miniscule life. Makes me wonder if a life of happiness would have been different, better...happy.

Some are born with tragedy running in their veins, pulsating rhythmically, full of life and yet lethal to all but the host. Like the carrier of a deadly virus. Dangerous to all but himself. Ironic. Tragedy requires sustenance. It requires immortality or something close to it. The virus, unable to manifest itself without the host. Tragedy exists until the blood flows and so protects its host as a survival mechanism.

Making us, the carriers, stronger...
Almost invincible.

Tragedy is written in genes. Hard-coded in the DNA as an Almighty, Omnipotent instruction bleeding its venom in every possibility, every choice, every dream, every hope, every action, every feeling...everyone. Multifaceted as it is, choosing its poisons from an arsenal of treachery and betrayal, loss and failure, regret and remorse, pain and suffering.

Classic depiction of Evil, a being walking through a green field, sucking the life out of every blade of grass, flowers wilting at his mere presence. The dichotomic evil of tragedy in my veins compelling, goading, luring you to stab at a perforated back, making you cause pain, making you disloyal, dishonest...distant. Sometimes against your very nature. Don't be surprised; it’s not you, it’s me...and I'll understand.

You think you can outrun your daemons. All in hopes of ameliorating the debacle of a stunted life. Never realizing they are the life-blood in your veins. And finally when the realization strikes, you lose the illusionary comfort of your already torn and shredded security blankets; the few that you have.

Ugliness is an unforgiveable sin in this brutal world. Is it the shape of your nose or the color of your skin, is there more to it?. How do you get rid of ugliness? is it all relative; a social conformity, a drive to satisfy the herd instinct or is ugliness really ugly?. Flinching, shuddering, retching, repulsively ugly. Ugliness; a breeding ground of unrequited feelings and emotions. Creating distances.

Distances keep the curiosities piqued and mysteries ablaze. Reducing distances accentuates faults and imperfections which are often unanticipated. However, when distances diminish and affections grow rapidly; alarmingly so, the end is near. The blind witch, getting ready to slash at a frail thread. How many more loses? How much more of misery? Is there heroism in suffering? Does it absolutely require appraisal for its existence?

Have I strength? If my heart still yearns for affection against my will?

You've never been alone, if you haven't been alone in New York City.