Vows

The naive seed of strawberry drips slowly as it falls down from the floor above, like a dew drop from heaven; the sweet smell of nectar and like an obsession of an angel. And I hear the sirens of the road and a chasing ambulance, while your car tows behind it.

I hugged your blood which left a reminiscence of you on my white shirt. I caressed it and held it tight. The lights from the needed grace of yours spoke to me and as you sleep in peace, I felt the pain inside me. The torn dreams of ours, chased by these vehicles of insanity. Wish this would have never happened. Hoped that door should have been never closed.

The wooden planks busted apart and the street lights went amok. I could hear the first siren and I could hear the last honking of your car; the silence followed in my heart after the last breath. The song played as I ran on the street; I ran and ran, till I found the last piece of metal on the lane.

Let's play it all over again and I promise it would never be the same. The doors would not have been shut and the siren would have never chased your car. If I would lied, this would have never happened, I would have never shown the angelic doors. All I want and all I ask, to hear your voice. The blurred words of yours drowned in the mist of this night. I heard a faint sound from the church, which seemed so distant. And I heard my vows. I was still running and I couldn't feel my legs and I wrenched my heart and cursed God.

I do not know what happened next; for I would never know - what happened next.

I see myself sitting on the wheelchair and I could barely feel my limbs. It is the heart which I talk to and its my mind that hears to it. It is lonely inside. It is lonely to be alone. All I could see is the green meadow that surrounds this place.

It is green and somewhere I think ... I hear our vows and I want to hear them again ... and again.

3 hours more

Few Final hours.

21:00

Milan

(500)

I love her smile. I love her hair. I love her knees. I love how she licks her lips before she talks. I love her heart-shaped birthmark on her neck. I love it when she sleeps.

I hate her crooked teeth. I hate her 1960s haircut. I hate her knobby knees. I hate her cockroach-shaped splotch on her neck. I hate the way she smacks her lips before she talks. I hate the way she sounds when she laughs.

(500)days of summer

SNC

“When you're young, your whole life is about the pursuit of fun. Then, you grow up and learn to be cautious. You could break a bone or a heart. You look before you leap and sometimes you don't leap at all because there's not always someone there to catch you. And in life, there's no safety net. When did it stop being fun and start being scary?”

Carrie Bradshaw : Sex and the City

The Saturday Morning

The deep shades of the blossom
The longing road to innocence
The alluring sight of autumn
The frosty chilly windy winter
The cloud cluster
The fog and the mist luster
The brown jacket
The wet hair
The torn denims
The bare within.

I was walking alone
On this Saturday morning …

Re-posted :23th December 2006

Numb

Standing vulnerable under the sterile shower. Dreaming peacefully on freshly laid carpet of emerald moss in a tropical rain forest. Swimming au naturel in turquoise barren Pacific ocean. Flying incessantly from the mountains in Capri. Bathing candidly under the emollient sun of Tuscany. Life is beautiful.

As he slowly consumed the unseen, his veins swelled to colossal proportions. The sweat on his brow consummated with the sheen of his lips. The taste was brine and retentive. He could feel the dismemberment of his senses as he counted them till he reached the fifth one - The touch, but still he could feel the warmth of his own fluid as it dripped seamlessly, till he could feel no more.

Symphony copulated with tranquillity and a long distinct pause followed. His senses had returned. All of them. He could see, feel, hear, taste and smell again.

He was standing vulnerable under the sterile shower and dreaming peacefully on freshly laid carpet of emerald moss in a tropical rain forest as he tried swimming au naturel in turquoise barren Pacific ocean while flying incessantly from the mountains in Capri and bathing candidly under the emollient sun of Tuscany. Life was beautiful.

Psychedelic trance.

He could see.feel.hear.taste.smell - only one thing was amiss - his nude dichotomized body which laid mute on the operating table as he voluntarily flew above it.

Life could have been beautiful.

Real Love

Real love isn't ambivalent. I'd swear that's a line from my favorite best-selling paperback novel, "In Love with the Night Mysterious", except I don't think you've ever read it. Well, you ought to, instead of spending the rest of your life, trying to get through "Democracy in America." It's about this white woman whose daddy owns a plantation in the Deep South, in the years before the Civil War. And her name is Margaret, and she's in love with her daddy's number-one slave, and his name is Thaddeus. And she's married, but her white slave-owner husband has AIDS: Antebellum Insufficiently-Developed Sex-organs. And so, there's a lot of hot stuff going down, when Margaret and Thaddeus can catch a spare torrid ten under the cotton-picking moon. And then of course the Yankees come, and they set the slaves free. And the slaves string up old daddy and so on, historical fiction. Somewhere in there I recall, Margaret and Thaddeus find the time to discuss the nature of love. Her face is reflecting the flames of the burning plantation, You know the way white people do, and his black face is dark in the night and she says to him, "Thaddeus, real love isn't ever ambivalent."

- Belize from mini-series 'Angels in America' (2003)

Courtesy: IMDb

American Beauty

" I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me... but it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst... And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life..."

- Lester Burnham : American Beauty

Holy Ghost

Strung out on those feelings

Because people just need things

No sense in believing

- Holy Ghost

If ever find a home again - I would be very happy - I always have said to you - I lived in suitcase for past 7 years. I do not know where my home is, I do not know where I belong. I lost cities and I have lost homes. I do not have any place to go. I do not have any corner of my own. I do not have a place where I can go and sip a cup of coffee or read a book for hours together. But as Gloria the great says - we are true Survivors.

If we happen to meet one day, maybe we would meet in a place that I would call my home. I would wait to find my home and I would wait to find my city and a country that I would call of my own. But till, then I would search for what I have started. I am just tired of this cyclic redundancy and I would never understand this feeling of loneliness. One more home scratched from the list, one more city lost to juvenile foolishness of an incandescent mind. I do not know what to do ahead - as I search in my Bohemian bag and I search for nothing but some lost river pebbles and some memories of eternal transition.

I should have realized that you would have moved on, right from the day I left the city. The void that I had created, by now, would have been filled. I was juvenile and ignored all the claims that the world had put forth. I missed the holistic approach to the subject. I missed that house which I called home. Maybe I was very stupid. Maybe I should have realized all this long time back. Maybe I should have understood the situation. Maybe I should have learned the lesson when I fell in love with all the people who were inevitably wrong for me. Maybe thats why the time has stuck. Maybe life has some new adventure for me. Maybe I am 29 years old. And maybe after seeing and doing what I want to do, I would want to kill myself.

I do not know anything for sure. I made all those friends in all those years and now I have no one. Its a clean slate all over again. I would for sure lose everyone one by one. Maybe that will help me not to miss the city and curb my desire to come back. Maybe I am just acting stupid like an old drunkard high on narcotics. Maybe all this reading is screwing up your head. Maybe all this thinking is jumbling up my thought process.

Maybe all I wanted was a friend whom I have rights of ownership on. Maybe I made a wrong choice. Maybe it was a good choice. Maybe I should not have come here to live my dream, I should have stayed with you.Then maybe all of this would not have happened. But then who knows - maybe only time shall tell - as Enya said - Only Time.

For now - I leave everyone and start all over again. I do not have friends and rest of the people have their own lives to deal with. I walk alone and I hope all the best things for you. Maybe one day you will see and understand why I am upset. Its cold right now and the weather is amazingly depressing and I have left a lot behind. The feeling of security as gone and with no-blanket its indeed very cold. Its just suicidal.

The new city has sure taught me a lot. I can never be dependent on anyone - friend or foe they all are alike. Its time which tells the difference.

Independent dependency !

1:20 pm

December 2, 2002

Mumbai Airport

from - Phase of the moon (edited /modified version)

Blankets-1

A bunch of paper flowers. A light blue vase. And few fresh leaves. Surrealism with a bit of euphemism. I wonder what happens when rain drizzles over this city, so perfect and blemished by random Graffiti - an art that survives and enigmatically covers these grotesque Victorian structures. Autumn seems to have invaded and evaded long time back. The time seems to tick away on this frame of my mind. They say - When it snows, the city has a charm of its own. White blankets over these beautiful structures would seem like quilt laden with dreams of the world that I had dreamt of. Pretty unseen nostalgia.

As I write this, my home is submerged in water. As I tuck myself in this security blanket of optimism, somewhere some child would be tucked into a plastic sheet - his blanket of security, with his mind filled with ambiguity of next meal. Sometimes - we as humans fail. We fail to be humans. Evolution - they say. The survival of fittest - Darwin said.

Next time, when you buy a new mattress - do not throw away the plastic sheet that wraps it. It might be someone's blanket.

Such is humane. Such is a human.

12:06 am

Can't get over this one - But it rained by Parikarma.

Wrapped in a polythene, tucked away safe in my mind

a little goodbye, maybe, or just a passing smile...

Well does life get any better

more yesterday than today

How I thought the sun would shine tomorrow

But it rained...

Buzz

Surely in toil or fray under an alien sky, Confort it is to say, of no mean city am I ! Rudyard Kipling, to the city of Bombay.

And when your ears have stopped ringing, there is a buzz, The Mumbai buzz.

Perhaps that is what gives this city a unique buzz. The fact that it lives in several time zones at once. Blink and you shall miss the next flight that sores high up from and within the slums of Dharavi, overlooking the city scape. I waited to see the descent. The ascending foray into the new world was what I dreaded few years back. When I took a key decision to leave my birth city and sore into an alien darkness. I love that land now. The sipping of hot coffee and few friends that I care for and would nearly die for, a metaphor. Now when I am flung into a mid-air transition, yet again, I dread the city. I do not know what would happen and what it would take to leave it once again and sore to the land besides the lovely Mediterrian sea. All seems blurring – as the frost sweeping past this window pane that I sit by.

The true context is an emergency happening in a slow motion. Like the Helvetica font. Clear and Blur from a distant. The sea of Mumbai sees the froth laden with garbage along the Queen’s Necklace: a paradise for the joggers of Rich and Famous and a dump-yard for poor homeless souls. It can slap the socio-economic strata right across the face and say – This is Mumbai, the land of dreams – A true example of an eternal question – What is Life all about?

That’s buzz.

The flight was simple and yet tensed. I must have never imagined how the memory lanes can go awry in this manner. Like a jar of jellybeans – every single favor seems like Venus Trap: strategically designed to kill. Every single candy – delicious and addictive, lone and yet significant. I wondered what it would be. Which candy do I choose – I would be happy to see some old memories and miss the present as a distant past. I would miss the auto and bus rides back in Bangalore. I would miss the missing nightlife and the sleep-on-time phase. It all seems so weird. Seems like the week had just started. The buzzing of Mumbai locals and the rains, I wonder how the shores from here would be? How would be beautiful and hyped? Would it would be as pretty as my two homes- Mumbai and Bangalore or would it would be cold and alien? Would it be merciless and contrasted by rich and poor? Would be the rains – Never ending like Mumbai or ever drizzling like Bangalore? Would sun be humid or it would be harsh? Would Life be as pretty as those Google images or would it be blank and virginized. Life has definitely moved on, and I guess I am yet trying by best to keep up with its pace. As one city feels betrayed, I foray into another scape. Where sin is as virtuous and where the survival is as much a poor man’s bread as a rich woman’s pearl. The city of dreams that I had left three years back would slap me hard and say - It was time. Your forty days of honeymoon have started. You better made me pregnant and obliged for the next city would be a complete merciless invasion of Roman pride. It is afternoon and I am still mid-air descending down to the city where I was conceived born and brought up. The ears are still ringing with an incessant buzz and I think I have reached my home. My suitcase is still in the cargo, as I stand with nothing on but bare essentials of my survival.

Viva Mumbai. The land where nothing is impossible and everything is impossible. And soon, I would leave my city to foray into another and onto another virgin shore. I waited for twenty two years for three years of hope and now I wait for next forty days for my life of three sixty five days in Milan. Mumbai-Bangalore-Mumbai-Milan. I am on a roller coaster and the ride has just begun. Viva Mumbai – where forty days and forty nights would mix into one incessant buzz. The buzz of not just the city: But of Life. For what it is – I am yet to discover.

12:53 pm

On-flight from Bangalore to Mumbai.

(Somewhere I hear a faint sound of jazz as the flight steward announces the closure of all electronic equipments – Time to descend down)

The last lunch.

My last lunch with my colleagues just got over. A perfect end to a perfect era which spanned over three years. Thought of sending in the last post from this machine, from my chair and from my desk. Nothing will be same and nothing can be more different. In this world, full of people - I would try and seek for more adventures and gain experience. However, I wonder why am I not detached - why I am still having the feeling of being part of this office. Why everything is still yellow !?

The last lunch
3:48 pm
Friday, 11th September 2009

Space Issues.

Seems off late, nothing is on my mind. Some random songs. Some random dreams. Some random past tenses. The city no longer seems mine, rather nothing seems to be owned by me any more. Last evening, I was sleep-walking on streets of Bangalore - in particular MG and Brigade; as I tried hard to relate or re-live the good old days - 2003, when I first came here. Things are different now- radically; diagonally and laterally. As I saw some cafe, which I was a regular at, I remembered some old friends and some new smiles. It has been years - time changes. Well some one said it heals - I pretend that it changes ! I called up my best pal. A and then obviously I called my back-up T. and surprising for the first time, they both had same viewpoint. Live as it comes ! I mean theories established for imbalance do not usually work in tandem with irrational behaviour and psyche of human nature and mind. I quite oblivious to the obvious fact ? Or was I trying to recall my past with a perpetual frame of my mind's boredom?

Few steps ahead and the evening dawned upon over that once calm and now obnoxiously crowded street in Bangalore. It was not the way it used to look like. No cafes on side walk. No boulevard of bougainvilleas and definitely no couples on street benches. This city has changed for sure. I do not know what happened but then time happened and as they say time changes and I guess it does heal after the initial hurt.

It was late and I decided to head back home, a quick call here and there and some music on myipod, the evening closed down and the night sky caved in. It was cold and it had started to rain. No transportation and hence a struggle to go back home. Home ? Was this city really what I should or ideally I should call - home ?

I guess there is home where you chalk a plan and elevate any sort of elevation. That is home. Throw in some sheer curtains and ethnic durries and voila - one has space. I guess my space is what is my home. This city gave me my space - and hence maybe I say it was my home. As I pondered wondered contemplated and irritated my thoughts, I figured out the nearest road-side coffee vendor. Me, who usually hates untimely rains - loved them and saw them wet this city- gradually the city drowned in a subdued mist and I could see the traffic fading out.

An hour later - rather after spoiling my new leather shoes - I decided to wrap the day up. Few days more and I guess I would be heading to Mumbai. Home?

I guess my space is not defined by cities, curtains and local chaiwallas or pastawallas, my space lies in my suitcase. And that is my Home! as of now it goes by the name Samsonite Black Label by Alexander McQueen (and one in black ... please!)

LOL - the new word for scarcasm !

Disclaimer : The blogposts are always Fictionalized sequences of real events.places.people.things.

" Let it. I don't understand why I'm not dead. When your heart breaks, you should die. But there's still the rest of you. There's your breasts and your genitals... They're amazingly stupid, like babies or faithful dogs. They don't get it, they just want him. Want him." - Harper Pitt (Angels in America)

Again a re-run of this mini-series on late dateless Saturday night, and a sudden dash of one-liner mail "How are you doing?"said in one of those long drawn monotonous and utterly boring voice patterns to one of my exs. The reply I assumed would not be a reply but it was better than I expected - my Inbox blinked ! Staring bluntly at my sleep-devoid face. Not realizing that it would be late afternoon on other side of darkness and assuming that elliptical blob of water doesn't spin and dateless Saturday night is not some global phenomenon, I clicked on the highlighted T-zone. The response was morose with a bit of anger and a dash of amazing sarcasm in a full paragraph. I mean what kind of retard response was that, I wondered for a minute. I asked about the weather conditions in Houston and I get why the relationship went sour. Its like chocolate filled with rum. You hate chocolate and you despise rum fillet. Well, I loved the both and so my response was alluring and simple !
Imagine how would you feel when someone replies as "lol" to one of your so-thought-vibrant sarcasm ! Infuriating. Hell no, its amazingly humiliating and kind of a will-show-how-smart-are-you-than-a-fifth-grader!
Well, I did exactly that and typed in "lol" as a subject line ! Period... a long one on that.
After that, as I relaxed with self-satisfied ego for outdoing someones sarcasm with mine deeply inundated yet shallow lack of understanding of someones outburst, I dialed some ten random numbers, pinged some ten random friends online and cried fish for a foul. Only to realize what A. had told me some 11 years back.

"I always tell you about human psychology, of pretending superiority by feigning rudeness."

I poured in some hot chocolate and relaxed back on my beanie and pondered. I smelled the rains and looked outside the window, only to realize daggered darkness eloping with big droplets in solitary confinement. Life- they say is weird. That night was like that. Those raindrops were like that. I wanted to soak myself in that surreal darkness but I wasn't able to. The thought of getting wet and catching cold was constraining enough to make me realize the surrealism of reality. I stood by the window and watched it. After couple of hours, there was muted silence.

I guess it had answered to my unresolved constraints ! And I guess that is what makes me Human.. well a rude one at that ! Or for so I assume-to-be-or-pretend-to-be !

When your heart breaks, you should die. But there's still the rest of you. Your sarcasm, perhaps !!??

6/05/2009

Nothing can be more appropriate for this day other than these lines.

3 people. 3 instances. 3 beats.

The night I laid my eyes on you
I felt everything around me move
Got nervous when you looked my way
But you knew all the words to say

Then I soar like a bird in the wind
Oh I glide like I'm flying through heaven

Reminders of Then

Kimya Dawson - Reminders of Then

Ask me out
Take me over
Walk around
Meet my mother
Take me down
To the cellar
All around
I see
Reminders
Of then

Why am I surprised?
Lies and bullshit
And bullshit and lies
You'd think I'd give up
After so many tries
But my finger's on the trigger
And my eyes are on the prize

Somersault
To september
Hope I last
Til november
Birthday boys
Don't remember
All around
I see
Reminders
Of then

Why am I surprised?
Lies and bullshit
And bullshit and lies
You'd think I'd give up
After so many tries
But my finger's on the trigger
And my eyes are on the prize

Ask me out
Bowl me over
Watch your back
Meet my brother
All those boyfriends
All those loose ends
In my pretend harem
Of scorpio boys
My pretend harem
Of scorpio boys
My pretend harem
Of scorpio boys

?!

The last fragrance of nomad. Lost. Profound. The stolen moments of a decade. The red stones. Unearthed, yet carved. The yellow tropical rain forest. The shimmer of a web and the death within. The air - rotten, yet radiantly basking in that last ray. South. North. East. West. West. West.

The talks. Length. Width. The snort inhaled. Snoot all over. The fire, dead. The space restored after the night before. Green moss all over. Creepers creeping. The vipers hissing. The rattlers - well, rattling insane.

Traces of smell in my hair. I reached city. I was torn. The clothes, stitched with twigs of nature. Walked towards my car. Reached for my keys. And I found, him... stubbed and wrinkled.

Blackout

Ringlets. Small. Huge. Blurred.
(blackout)
Lights. Magenta. Flickering. Karmic.
(blackout)
Patterns. Concentric. Psychedelic.
(blackout)
Floor. Blue. Grid.
(blackout)
Curtains. White. Breeze.
(blackout)
Evening. Yellow. Dusk. Orange. Night. Black.
(blackout)
Air. Intoxicating. Trance.
(blackout)
Mattress. Cars. Condoms.
(blackout)
Laughter. Loud. Addictive.
(blackout)
Hands. Legs. Face. Eyes.
(blackout)
Thirst. Water. Rains.
(blackout)
Moths. Flame. Vapors.
(blackout)
Smoke. Intense. Carnal.
(blackout)
Fushcia. Lavender. Crimson.
(blackout)
Dreams. Space. Fast cars.
(deep semi-consciousness of mind & heart)

Burnable. Burns. Burnt. Burning. The stick of addictive intoxication - Life as it is from the end of a stick. (Ash it)

The Shadow Of Your Smile

(Nancy Sinatra/Paul Francis Webster/Johnny Alfred Mandel)

The shadow of your smile
When you are gone
Will color all my dreams
That lights the dawn

Look into my eyes oh my love and you will see
All the lovely things that you are to me

Our wistful little star
Was far too high
A teardrop kissed your lips
And so did I

Now when I remember spring
And all the joys that love can bring
That's when I will be remembering
The shadow of your smile

Sometimes.Somethings.

The shimmer of a knife on cold granite. He pours himself a glass of whiskey, minus the ice cubes. The naked bulb on his kitchen ceiling flickers on the fibrous blue veins. The ants seem to deviate their path for another optimal option. They cannot find one. Trying to resume, the line hits the glass without the rocks. The swivel of his gun's barrel. The absurd key on the table. He wonders and in a state of intoxicated consciousness, draws a circle with his blood-wet finger tip. Circle; a paradoxical and magical geometric form. He draws yet another. Concentric and more concentrated. It colts. He shifts his line of sight. The shimmer of knife, tarnished by irregular colts. Another 90 down. That makes it 360 for the evening, he calculated. Weird.

The mosaic floor. 20 yards from one room of solace to another of intolerance. A clash of heart and mind. An absolute torque. Who am I ? Who was he? What has become of him? A pint of intoxication, more. He colored outside the lines. Blurred. Hazy. Obnoxious. He sat on his big brown sofa. Still wondering, about the distance from kitchen to the drawing room. From him to me - to him, again. So what I seek for. Do I walk for myself, or is it for pure pleasure of Transition. Evolution. Change?
And what is change? Ice to Water. Water to Vapor. And back into the cycle of intermediate transitions. So what happens to my blood? Would my pyre suffice - to rinse off my existence? Or would I need some more wood, to help vaporize my blood?

They injected me with another dose of morphine. Nice. Alluring. Yellow daisies all around in pastures of green, I had a yellow house - a red car- and a brown dog !
Dreams. Trance. Fusion.
The transition did happen. It just took 5 ml of that drug and I was in heaven.
I was lost. I had lost myself... The circle was nowhere to be seen. I was in a sphere...

Sea Star

A necklace sea star rests on a reef in the Solomon Islands.

Subspecies of this striking sea star are identified by differences in the plates that cover their dorsal side.

Photograph by Wolcott Henry
Courtesy : National Geographic

These random things

The waning and the waxing of the moon. The darkness and light of subdued nature, a bit of happiness and a bit of gloom.

The stain on the wall. The cup by the sink. The smudge on the carpet. The stained spot on my shirt. A thread from the yarn. The dust on the lamp. Broken wing of the fan. The twig from a nearby tree. The lost leaf from the courtyard. The crack on the windowpane. The scratch on the painted door. The scar on the cemented floor. The dislodged hinge of the wardrobe. The creaking of the toilet door. The grim on the cooking range. The left-overs from the last night's dinner. The tassels on the fan. The cobwebs on the wall. The strewn cotton from the mattress. The lost pearl from the necklace. A loose stitch on the evening gown. The disgruntled zipper on my denim shorts. The last drop in the juice jar. The last of coriander leaves in the refrigerator. The line of ants in the kitchen. The moss in the fishbowl. A spoonful of washing powder in the sachet. The unbuttoned washing machine. The broken sling of the sack. The karaoke of a dead singer. The broken string of my guitar. The lost tune of my song.

The last alphabet in a word. The last word in a sentence. The last sentence in a paragraph. The last paragraph in a story. The last story of my Life. The last life of my nine lives...

10:30 pm
6th April, 2oo6
Ahmedabad-Mumbai : Gujarat Mail

Fragrance

It was just the color; I said to myself. Just the color he wore. Sweet autumn yellow with a hint of orange and a perfect green. Citrus. Patchouli. Thyme. Adorned with the tinge of melting blue and the pine woods in the air. It was just a dash of moist wood and the smell of burnt leaves, down the forest of loneliness. It was him for sure. The dreams merging into a trance of unknown ecstasy. Fear of the known and the gloves of ghosts from the past.
I walked past by his balcony, into the sea and off the land. A reminiscence from lost town of Portugal. The stolen Victorian bars, which supported solid rose wood log, was all I remembered. Coffee and Conversations on the balcony. The moon laden nights. And the sliver streaks hiding few of our souls within itself. I tried to see it. The penchant smell of a nostalgic rendezvous gripped me as I ran towards my car. It followed me. Slowly. Steadily. Like a musk of a deer. It was all over me. I fastened my seat belt and accelerated to my own world.
Done. Over. Foregone. Forlorn. Forgotten.

He. Me.

It goes in various circles of concentric nature. Round. Round. Round. It goes. Trying to figure out an outlet for an adventure from rustic nature of boredom. It wonders whether there is an outlet or not, as it does see an inlet above himself. An inlet - which for sure cannot become its outlet. A demarcating line that it cannot cross. A boundary of existence and resistance - which when crossed can become its line of survival. Nature did not make him this way. He has to be within limits of his society, within limits of his cultural morality. I saw him. And through its bubble of survival, it saw me. Eyes of paranoia. Eyes that questioned for a solution. The blueness evaded and the gravel below moved in an seamless manner. It was his world and outside was mine. I had defined his territory and he defined his. The floral bohemian pattern shattered, thus motivating him to move out the realm of paradigmatic existence. I feared for his survival, he feared the new territory. As I watched him flipping for air, he saw him as his mentor, as his savior. His conscience, I picked and slipped him in a new zone of bubble. It was a new bubble and he had traveled from past to present. He was happy for the battle that he had put himself into and through. I smiled and waved at him. He did a spin and greeted me back. I knew his limitations and he knew mine. From a battle with himself to my emotional turmoil. We both knew the weakest zones of each other. Vulnerable - as he was... so was I !