There was a time- unprotected but unscathed...
Followed then the blowing of the horn,
When soldiers rode the parade
As they caught the glitter of the skies
In their edges of their blades
And castles drowned the mountains to rise...
To form our days- protected but scathed.


The way back from my department is a fifteen minutes walk- which qualifies to be languid- methodically following the directions of signal lights everytime. There are uphill alleys which eventually pours downhill to meet another of his ally of alleys as I see the rise and fall of the sky before me, as if a huge rise and release of the bossom of a heavenly mammal while breathing. And hence everyday, I obtain an exclusive half an hour of self-contemplation, mostly of failures and lessons learnt as a consequence but which is again as if one of those double-starred undergraguate math-exercises, extremely difficult to crack it- then comes failure after much forceful, fierce attempts and when the time for give-up arrives- you feel the whole time was a waste cause it never contributed to your understanding.
Failure loses you as if you were a whisper amidst a tantrum of war-cries.

Have you seen a marathon race in television? Sure you have I guess.
I guess walking the walk on the blue-painted lane of life is something like that I feel. If someone asks me over the phone- "How are things going man?". The inevitable reply that slips through our lips is-"Fine" and then they fall tight closed- like a woman's purse-scarce of content.
And after a fortnight, if the same question comes up... the same answer follows. It is like switching on the TV and find a marathon runner running and then if you turn the TV set on after an hour, you find the same guy running in the same way- may be a bit more tired.

I remember, when the days were such that kept me too young- I found excitement in switching on the lamp- then followed the days when facing a fast-bowler in cricket was an act of defience- then came the days when senses blossomed- started to recognise colours but still strictly categorised into black and white- the bad and the good- then quickly lingered behind, the art of recognition of finer shades- the various forms of grey. It's a pity that our understanding of the affairs of the world is squeezed into the interplay of two shades only.

I stop now, for I feel running out of coherence- as if stranded over the cliff and then flung into a dream where you can swim along the sea to climb the sky... Well instead of me doing that-

It would be wise,
yes it would be wise my dear... my dear love.
To stop our pursuit which feels endless,
And hold each others hands instead.