Who Am I?

Who am I
But a Spectre in the Wind
Floating free
But locked in Limbo
Soaring great heights
In Silence
Zooming so fast
That time stands still.

I am that Spectre
That all know so well
Yet ignore and dismiss
In jest.
In Jest – is my form such
Comedic play?
You laugh at me
I laugh with you;
“The Spectre is so funny,
He makes us laugh,” you say
As you walk away.

“Well…Ta-ra now! Be good! Be happy!”
The Spectre waves madly,
His welcome grin replaced slowly
By a forlorn smile…
“Chin up, old chap.
They’ll come again…
When they want a bit of fun…
They almost always do…
Well most times…
Perhaps the odd occasion?”

So the Spectre floats free
High and Wide,
Fast and Slow,
School boy grin on his aged face,
Seeking but not searching
For the next campfire
And maybe perhaps…
The light at the end of the Tunnel.
But see there in his pocket?
He pats it oh so gently
As he hums a joyful tune
To a blue robot cat
Whose magical pocket
Might fulfil his requests and dreams.
He pats his pocket, & pats & pats:
And flies away humming.



Spanners We Are

We are always the spanners in others’ works.
The trick is in what the spanner does.
Fix it, or stick it?
I choose to Fix it.
Even in doing so,
the spanner wears.

That’s Life, so stick it.

Matchstick Monolithe

When I was a boy I built towers, one after the other, high as they could stand on their own. Made of matchsticks and toothpicks, they formed a lattice-work of girders and platforms. They were a sight to behold.

As a young man, I realised I couldn’t build my towers anymore; they wouldn’t go higher and they’d collapse under their own weight. But then I found I could connect these small towers, and build a large one — a monolithic monument — a testament to my dreams.

So as time passed, I had an affair with Fate. She was kind yet cruel. I had an affair with Circumstance too. She had an aloofness about her, an air of nonchalance that was somewhat alluring and exciting. Both gave me the best times of my life. Their nightly trysts cost me but a matchstick here or there; our daily dabbles yet more here or there. Pretty soon, gaps began to appear in the lattice work. Platforms began to fall, bits and pieces crumbled.

I patched them as best I could, placing matchsticks strategically, so that the towers wouldn’t fall. But alas. There is but one tower now. And it all stands on one platform, held together by a lattice that would crumble should the last matchstick be taken. I stand on the very brink of a new existence, looking back at a debt I need to pay. A debt of 1 matchstick — a heavy price to pay for my affairs. Fate and Circumstance satiated for now, stand by watching. I’ve built my towers to stand before me, the way forward blocked. The key is that last matchstick, it’s over dear Idiot, dear Fool.

That last matchstick. Take it and use it. Build new towers, yet greater monolithes to dedicate to You.

It is over. One more step.

Just One.

Death of Delhi

It pains me to read about the poor girl in the Death of Delhi case. I feel so angry, and hurt every time I read of details of her case, of what she suffered, and indeed the lack of humanity in her attackers. Are we not humans? Are they not? Social norms and attitudes aside, are there not fundamental rules of human interaction, and behaviour that we all follow?  Even if we were to bring in Religion and Faith, are there no barricades of Faith and Religion that bar these people from entering such violent and evil domains?

I feel such anger and such pain that such things can happen in the 21st century. To label an entire society evil based on the acts of a few is in itself wrong, but when the whole country can admit that there is such biasness embedded in the very fabric of society, then there must be something wrong.

I wonder if Death was bad for the victim, how would she have lived had she survived? Would she have suffered? Is she better off now? I consider the opposite for her attackers. Death, if granted to them would be merciful. A life sentence, in a cushy prison cell, 3 square meals would be be luxurious. How is a crime like this even punishable? Consider the works of Aligheri, where in <a href=”http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inferno_(Dante)” target=”_blank”>
Dante’s Inferno</a> would they be? In my  mind if we were to amalgamate all the mythological ideas of Hell from all cultures, it would not be enough.

But then, I would be guilty of Wrath. 😛