A Butterfly

.....And on her Left Shoulder
A Butterfly.....

Stairway To Heaven

Stay for me there;
I will not fail,
To meet thee
in that hollow vale.

And think not much of my delay;
I am already on the way.


HENRY KING, Bishop of Chichester,
Exequy on the death of his wife

I'm in a daze, no more a fog which seems to make everything so surreal to my eyes and brain right now.. It has a dreamlike quality about it..

There is no recall as such when I try to remember what I did the whole day today or yesterday night both of which have decided to entwine themselves within each other, clasped together into one entity engaged in blissful copulation. Lost in each other, engrossed in each other..

(Poe's " Dream Within A Dream" comes to mind, but of course I can't remember it fully)


I'm on a plane ... I can't complain (Nirvana).

To keep my mind from wandering off into Lulu land, & trying not to drift into a Wonderland of Hallucinations, I have been playing games with myself. Yes playing Little Games

Little Games are for Little Boys

I've found out there are other joys

...

The Wandering Thoughts

In this strange place I am at present, between inertia and vibrancy, I’m torn between the abandoned and amusing – well, it amuses me – this limbo that I am currently in, all I can do is muse and enjoy this fantasy fueled lethargy..

I have few words right now; this is my way, to grasp with intuition rather than intellectuality until the sediment has completely settled and formed crystals of the senses to be recorded at the peak of their ripeness.

I am in the Parvati Valley of Himachal Pradesh, another week before I am back.

Till Then I will watch this Rock Growing inside the split oak tree.

..



del.icio.us Tags: Ramble On Roz, Stone Age

Why Go On...??

Why: such an eternal and often unanswerable word that operates also as a question.

It implies a meaning and an intent, a cause and reaction, a chain of events.

It is basic and elemental.

Some words are laden, heavy, weighted with meaning. Some words once meant deeper things, but the meaning has since been lost, like those words absorbed by the English language beginning with "wr" that indicate a twisting motion, or misdirection.

The word writing itself describes a twisting motion of the wrist (which turns and twists to drag the utensil across the surface).

Such meanings have since become wraiths, the lost haunting shadows of words.

We type but we call it writing. The physical act described means we're doing something else when we sit at a keyboard and tap away at the keys.

What, exactly, are we doing, and why are we doing it?

The Anatomy of Meloncholy

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain....

from : The Day is Done,
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Her Return

With the dazzling glory of the sun

Today, after many days, she came.

All calm and patience did I lose

Not all her shyness did she restrain