Changing light

This light is not of the morning.

Warm, dull hues fall on this majestic tree. The bright leaves turn to olive. The grand trunk bathes, in what seems to be, the last trickles of light for the day. Waltzing dark shadows of little leaves caressing it to slumber.

There is the distant chirp of a lone bird.

But the day has just begun.

The lone chirp turns into a cacophony of chirping.

The shadows of little leaves disappear into oblivion. The grand trunk is washed with streaming light from the parting clouds. The olive leaves turn a grass green. Flares of white and yellow light dwarf this once majestic tree.

This light is of the morning now.

Sound

On the other side of the window, there was no sound. No sound of the city coming to life. No beep beeps of the distant horns. No humming of the traffic. No clanking of metal against metal. No muffled voices.

There was only light. Changing light. Patterns forming and disrupting. Flickering flashes. Orange turning yellow turning white. Tightening pupils. Clinging crows feet. Not there yet, but desperately trying to make a mark.

Fingers touched the thick window. A light misty vapour outlining the fingers. Trailing fingers down the dark glass. Smudges. A heavy sigh. The steam forms and with it a new kaleidoscope to the city. Slowing transforming.

Linger.

It was time. To hear the sound.

Diving

The movement all around him was silent and deafening. The only thing which made sense right now was the feeling of his pulse. It was his only constant from his other world. His older life.

Bubbles floated past him. Each one containing a universe of joy and lies. All of them reaching out. Some for him, to bring him back. And some for air. And a few, just a few, clung to him. And continued the journey with him.

He waited for something to happen. For a sign. Anything.

He saw her in his minds eye. Her beautiful lips, moving slowly. Then there was music. And he was lost in her hair. On his face. Sometimes, tickling his eyelids. And the wind. Powerful and cool. Flares of sunshine coming through.

How much time did he have left? That didn’t matter. Only now did.

Plummet

She welcomed him back with open arms.

* * *

But this was a different side of her that he was going to see.

The scratches on the surface would give away to deeper scars. To scars of torture, twinge and torment. To the past that he knew about, but had not felt, not seen. Whether he had been reluctant to look beyond, or she had been to open up more – they were not sure. But now was the time.

Unexpected but overdue.

He had to see how she came to where she was today. The path that was taken, and left behind. The bygones that would never be bygone. Reality.

She was ready to bite. And he, to be bitten.

* * *

She welcomed him back with open arms. After all, he was coming back.

Conundrum

The leaves crunched as he stepped into the frame. Brittle, brown, bruised. The circular flare blinded him from the side. Shining, shimmering, severe.

He wondered if he was alone. The echoes played tricks on his mind. Were they ricochets from now, or from the past? There was a presence that he couldn’t describe. Amidst the desolation it still seemed like everything was how it was. But not there.

He stepped forward, hesitatingly. And saw the flashes. Every leaf that crunched was a memory brought back. He crunched them, one by one. Till every one of them had crumbled and mingled with each other. This was the mother of all jigsaw puzzles. And this was the only way to put it back together.

Influx

For a moment
A whore
Feels romance

For a moment
The music
Is silent

For a moment
The night
Creates shadows

For a moment
It all
Makes sense

Then
That moment
Is over

Peccadillo

This city intoxicates me.

Its walls wrap me up in their poisonous embrace, pushing me in deeper. She indulges my memories of sins long forgotten.

I am in a part of this city I have never been in before. Yet its familiarity grasps me. It isn’t the people. Not even the smell. It is just a feeling. A feeling from years ago, bringing back departed encounters. Like bumping into what should be a ghost that should not be.

Bodies brush past me. A skirmish just to keep heading in one direction. On one path. But there is no one path in this city. It is a series of mazes interlocked and intertwined in each other. Feeding of each others complexities to create this cacophony of crazy confusion.

Today, I try to disguise myself in this return to her lair. I try to get lost in the labyrinths of her being. To not be recognized and to not remember. But something pulls me back to her. Even though it shouldn’t.

Something in her intoxicates me and pushes me deeper.

The answer eludes me. The question is why.

Done

The words you wrote just before these, will not be seen by anyone. Ever.

They are gone. Destroyed.

Repeat performance

The whispering wispy clouds
Whispered
And clouded the moon

Like cigarette smoke
Rising, encircling and going
Its own way

The symbolic symphonic synchronized dance
Around the moon
Was a sight to behold

Because
It was happening fast
And repeating itself

9-2-1

Yes. You have come to the right place. Not the same place, though it looks pretty much the same. The familiar comforting background still warmly welcomes you. The look and feel still mellow you down and take you on a journey. But the journey has changed.

Every journey brings out of it a new you. Even if you go back to the same place again. It is this new you that travels again and changes a place. In this continuous symphony of being changed and changing, you become you.

* * *

Nine.

I have traveled nine cities in the last month. I have lived the proverbial nine lives. Each one different than the first. And me? Each time different than the previous. I have metamorphosed my being across continents and oceans. Leaving a little bit of myself, everywhere I have gone. In return, taking a little bit for myself to fill up the spaces I have emptied.

It is the little things in these times that make the big difference. The train that you couldn’t make it in time for, the rain that splattered down changing your plans again and again, the small town with a big appetite, the big apple with a bite taken out of it, the gorgeous cityscape turning into a beautiful landscape, the things about some cities that never change, the town that you never thought that you would see, the quiet river that you sit by and contemplate, a friend you thought you would never make, the perfectly comfortable start to a long journey, different types of buses, trains and planes, and at the end of every journey, a smiling face. Even though you are not home. And then the simple and perfect joy of coming back home.

* * *

The eating of the cuisine of one country, in a second country, with a person from a third country, when you are from a fourth country. Twice in a week!

Where are the boundaries in this world? What are these boundaries made of? Nothing separates us anymore. Not borders, not nationalities, not seas and not even languages. It is one world. Beating and moving.

All nine cities connected through the intangible. Through words and feelings and being. Through us.

The loop of the 9 slowly unfurling, removing the boundary that it drew, removing the physical connection that it made and turning into a 1.

One.

* * *

Yes. You have come to the right place. Not the same place, though it looks pretty much the same. The familiar comforting background still warmly welcomes you. The look and feel still mellow you down and take you on a journey. But the journey has changed.

Every journey brings out of it a new you. Even if you go back to the same place again. It is this new you that travels again and changes a place. In this continuous symphony of being changed and changing, you become you.

You become one.