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