A sign of another deviation
Takes time to be natural
Or is it natural to be artificial?

Sometimes I feel like a great anachronistic character in a novel.Perhaps I am!
There are half a dozen people around,engrossed in a reviewing a movie they all saw.
There are many who discuss their routine.
And many who love to talk about things which they never can change.
So many who voice against what others accept,voices drowned!
Many who as a ritual hold their hankies against their nose when the bus reaches Coovam
I am one of them all
Yet not right out there...
Perhaps it is better to be invisible than insignificant!
Perhaps,better this way!

I am not the only one
To build a bridge
And let it rust,
To weep a tear
And forget the pat,
To walk a lane
And never return
To leave a tale
And seal the book
To elope in pain
And never know hurt
To bear a child
And forget its face
To smile at a flower
And wriggle it dry
To greet with a word
And use it to slight
To mourn over the done
And regret the undone!

Wilfred Owen
Futility

Move him into the sun--
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds,--
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved-- still warm,-- too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
-- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?

I sometimes feel what I've done throughout my days have been to hunt for Reasons-whatever it might be for-for doing and not doing things.It is rather disturbing at times to discover yourself grown into a habit which reason does not support anymore.Then you are stranded.The search for a new reason begins,but it isn't always convincing and becomes self-deceptive.The wisest decision would be to quit the habit.But again there needs to be a reason,the new one likely to contradict the old one though.A conflict is inevitable.Perhaps this is the process of a change!

A concrete floor cut into square pieces by red-oxide slabs.Then the smooth red tiles and then white marble floor.A placidness that meets each step, however grinding. An urge to learn an attitude.

The blue pigeons watching over their eggs over the walls of the old deep well.Unruly brats throwing stones over, setting the pigeon couple wildly crooning. A laugh over the excitement of an adventure.Discreetness yet to be learnt.

The long stretch of green paddy fields against the falling dusk.A slimy creature without legs crawl over the feet.I freeze till the coldness passes leaving behind a dread. Danger has its thrills!
An afternoon under the drying mango tree,parrots quarrelling over a fruit.I return home with a handful of pale-green feathers.There is treasure in a wreckage.

A blind rage and a furious fight.A bleeding arm for my brother, besides a treat of chocolate held fast in my fist.Retribution has its share of hurt.

As I write,I realize,that much of what I wrote before was poetry think in terms of metaphors are so conditioned to them that they have manipulated our thoughts to believe so much that is false sorrow is a passing cloud sorrow is a negative emotion decays the thoughts and reduce them to something vile and distressing clouds-white or dark,they have an amazing existence!I have experienced their flight and hurry when back at home I've lain back on the concrete platforms amidst the fields watching them with my little sister beside me."Where are they going,she'd asked."To Salem",I'd replied,knowing that it'd please her.A queer manipulation of not just words but thoughts too,because I lived in my imagination,what it'd be like to see the cloud in that crowded city.
Nobody thinks in verses.They require that same manipulation of words,a deliberation of thoughts that even demands an amount of exaggeration,I feel like talking.But I'm wary.Words make me feel vulnerable.

There are times when retrospection do not yield to the same results as it needs to.

A curious jumping from moments ago to a distant past offering a contrast that you are too wary to interpret.

Times when you close your eyes while climbing down a fleet of stairs and land on to the flat floor groping for another step.

Times when you stick your eyes on to the sky tracing the flight of a bird entreating it to fly higher and higher for the flight no longer remains the bird's alone but also of the mind.

Times when your eyes rove over a poem and tries to suck in new meanings and a million interpretations-for the words reveal something in you and you add more and more to discover yourself anew.