Time and What We Know As Life

Sometimes you encounter forces so great and abusive, far beyond what is human and explainable, that you are confused whether you have to accept your imminent defeat or if you have to put all doubts about the reality of comparative strengths, and fight against the perceived injustice, which, for all we know, seems to drag on till the end, the end of either hope, or of breath. Without you knowing, you become a coward by persisting to be brave. Without you realizing, the principles you lived-by form a death trap you are destined to step on. Without you feeling, you become empty of the very emotions that once defined everything for you. Just when you realize you are too tired and cannot fight, the force pushes you down an abyss that you believed cannot go any deeper than where you already are. You are overridden with rage, that even in the moments that you believe are your last ones, the force still expects you to put up a fight. The rage helps you recover some sanity, and strength, and fight a little longer before everything circles back to your waning hope and tiring soul. It is as if the force throws you down a very deep abyss and the only way out is that you, a human, must grow wings to get out of the darkness and gloom. All the poems you wrote about flying don’t really mean anything, unless of course you find someone who makes you believe that you are not actually falling, but flying. Well, that again brings everything to the great and abusive force that snatches your only light, and the whole things repeats till the end, the end of either hope, or breath.


a pebble ashore that never moved

A fresh wave of ocean slams ashore, slowly treading into the sand and re-moisturizing every speckle of it. The sun is at it’s usual shearing best and the reflections of the rays on the sand give the whole beach a golden furbished look. The ocean as usually looks blue due to the sky’s azure shade. The clouds seem to move fast, as if they were trying to end the day as fast as they could because they cannot see the little boy, over the shore, in distress anymore. He was standing there all day, till noon, that is now, without moving as much as an inch, as if he were a stone statue, sculpted by an artist, who, unable to withstand the pain he was experiencing, sculpted this boy statue hoping he would impart some pain into it thus reducing what he himself has to endure . Succeeded he was, if this boy, standing on this continually, water trumpeted shore was really a stone effigy. Even the sticky moisture condensing over the boy’s face due to the humid weather, which always is the nature of air around a sea coast, could not deter the boy’s grit on standing still. The ocean’s vast expanse hasn’t hindered or frightened the boy to lower his gaze from the wavy, sky-reflecting surface of it.

A drop of saline sweat starts to push up from the pores of his skin just above his brow, mixing with the moisture that has already condensed there. This mixture seems to increase the weight of the droplet, now not withstanding its increased mass, it slowly serpentines down his brow, over the left flank of his nose and the droplet makes it to his tip of the nose. As if waiting if the kid would move now, at least now, to wipe this sweat and moist mixture clinging on to his nose which definitely produces a tickling sensation, the droplet stays still as if time was frozen. But the boy never moved. The droplet sensing lost hope, un-links itself from the nose tip and falls onto the sand patch between the boy’s legs with a gentle splatter, the burble lost in the giant splashes of the ocean. The clouds had but to move on. The sun was lowering his radiant smile or maybe that was his glaring rage, but lowered it was, slowly and accurate to pixel. The sky, as if trying to signify this resentment of the sun, changes from deep azure color to a bleak orange-peach ruffle first and then to a dark orange contrast. Surely, the day has to end and the boy has to return home. The boy was still standing, his posture never changed all day. What was it he was thinking of? What was troubling him? What matter could be as such that would make him stand at this shore, as a stone statue built only to portray the endurance of this boy. He has shown what endurance is, for all of nature has seen what he has done standing there all day. The sky, the clouds, the sand, the sun, everyone and everything knew this act was of a guy who was to endure something, something mighty. But what they could see was not what it all was. Because the endurance shown by the boy was not just his standing on the shore all day but it also was his inner fight that he raged against so bravely. Yet, he knew he failed. The nature which was the witness all day wouldn’t agree, but he knew that he failed. After the sweat that could no longer stay inside his skin emanated out over his brow, at noon as we remember, and mixed with the moisture that was already on his face, the formed droplet serpentined its way to the tip of his nose. We remember the droplet losing hope and at last un-linking itself. It wasn’t that. When this saline mixture was still clinging on to his nose tip, a tear, everyone missed to see it, slipped out from his left eye and made its way to its pre-destined destination, the tip of the nose. There it thuded into the already formed droplet causing the weight to increased tauntingly and the entire blend broke away from the tip of his nose, landing on the sand quietly. He knew he failed, no different? he thought. For all he could endure was that, he did his best to hide the effects of the battle raging inside from his face. He thought, to soothe his own ravaged self, that the tear broke in when he was alone. But even though he was depressed by his failure, he was still gritty on standing there, on the shore.

Let another wave come, a wave of ocean or a wave of another inner battle.

Resolving his grit thus, he moved at last. He took a deep, peaceful intake of fresh, pristine air and slowly puffing it out as if preparing for a battle with a horde of evil spirits that’s marching towards him and which he has but to see through.

He was ready for the next wave.