What does one do with these thoughts that imitate a firefly. Elusive, haunting, with hopes of promise and enveloped in mystery.
It's like a breathless moment before, opening the lid of an old trunk or door to a deserted house or the first step in a secret garden.
Waiting for the fireflies to reveal themselves in a way that at least keep the ground and the sky intact...

Unsaid_Draft

That view of clouds slowly engulfing the mountain
and the wet air that mixed with the breath
The unsteady steps through the treacherous unknown
and the pause that encountered the divine
The search for the unseen in the tormenting daylight
and the mysterious spec that delivered delight
The stifling bondage of the mind
and the respite of fresh air despite the grime
The walk through forest, the sneaky snake,
The unconcerned birds, the purple dragonfly,
The rebuking stream, the boards of time,
The corners of darkness, the nests of light,
The gifts of birth, the tests of life,
The sudden fall, the struggle to rise,
The snipped past, the box of stories,
The uncertain dreams, the conversations in the mind,
all like encased in a monotonous clock,
....are safe with me like the unassuming magic between each breath of time

I never knew there is this feeling, where you want to write and the words don't surface. They are just locked somewhere and refuse to reveal themselves to the brain. 

Since I have subscribed to the Alain DeBotton's school of life channel, I have no complex strands left to be thought and resolved. Maybe as the questions are answered even before i could ask them. I think, therefore I am supposed to move on to other interesting pursuits.

What a gift this channel is :).....

Write

I want to write,

Of soothing spaces and spiraling anxiety,
Of fleeting warmth and nests of cold,
Of beautiful beings and darkness dripping souls,
Of flowers in spring and ashes of dusk,
Of noiseless happiness and shrieking silence,
Of embalming trust and wrecking fear,
Of breaths lost and embraced hope,

A fearless present,
A path of toil,
A sleep well earned,
A wrinkled face,
A calm soul,
A home found,
A life lived and shared,

To not rush
To root and stay
To wait and create
To work and sweat
To knit the moments
To weave the story

And live the gift

Constant

There are times in life when one just deludes oneself to believe that there is a constant.
There is a constant in life of physical presence, of infinite shared moments, understandings.
That there is an omnipresent constant that will let you step outside the prison of time.

It is these delusions, that make implosion of the core unbearable, shattering the warm haze of the constant.
The time not only invades the now vacant spaces, drilling them hollow, but also makes the whole past meaningless.
These growing old- realizations, are a bit too late to bolster the spirit to live free from the imprisonment of time.

Now there will be no seeing through your lens to gauge the depths of meaning in the simple everyday.
To find solace in the meanings you shared, when the obsessions trapped you to follow the end of the net.
How I wish you were immortal, your humorous interactions with reality, made this world less escapist.

You are gone, but your creations will, live.
Live they will weaving the meanings across the spirals of time,
You just made life an interesting transit.

But how i still wish you were here always to stay, a constant in the noisy verbose world parched for simple meanings.

There will no more be a constant of inspiration for aspirations, but now just a reference.
Your contributions, I hope will live through the paranoid noise.
You will be immensely missed R.K Lakshman

Kemal Bey is constantly speaking in his mind and therefore to me. Throughout the journey of the book. But when I with him have to suffer, feel desperate for a way-out like he does, it is cruelty to think therefore that his loss would not affect me deeply. If you are a good artist - that you are, you should know, I lived in those streets that you portrayed, you can not kill hope in that new world for me. There should be a light after despair.

“She looked out the window; in her eyes was the light that you see only in children arriving at a new place, or in young people still open to new influences, still curious about the world because they have not yet been scarred by life.” ― Orhan Pamuk, The Museum of Innocence