Golden Ager: The Self

The world is a pit!

Consider me a cynic, bitter and hostile if you want but the truth is, we all are just fuel of the world. I come, I live, I go. I don't get to choose my origin, I am where I am supposed to be. I live by the rules of my origination. I am the self, I am imagination. I am all, I am none. I once thought I am not just a fickle flame that can be put out by a gust of wind.

The origins don't matter, what matters is the act of a man. An act is what defines me. But you may disagree. Well disagree all you want but the whole point of life is based on disagreement. You and me! We can't be a mirror image. You may not like my origin, you may hate my environment, you may disagree with my whatever comes out of my mouth, and you definitely can disaccord with my perspective on life, still, it is my life.

Credits; The Work of Marti Belcher

I met this aged, ragged and all wrinkly like a crumpled piece of paper. The poor old man was coughing the ceiling off. Raining and all, I get to walk with him, enjoying the weather. I couldn't say how we got talking but in there that walk I mumbled without thinking anything in particular,"The life is a gift!". And he said, "Bao G, Janr deo. Kade changay wale san" (Gentleman! Let it go. There were good times). I was a thrown off balance. I asked why did he say that. The golden ager said, "I was young once." The man crept at the pace of an ant and I was left behind, standing in rain, thinking.

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The wind was getting stronger, And the prints were too ragged, The hope was fickle, so were odds, And hapless soul was too shagged, Deaf, blind and a monk naked, As pure at heart as diamantine, The sun was raging and sand agitated, Burning at heart searched for divine, The shadows were raging and alive, And prints were lost in storm of time, The wind was wild, with a mirage in sight, And digs too seemed like a hard climb, Hope was fading, the vision was blurred, He prayed to Lord, not to be turned, The Soul of the world he said he earned, He got robbed, brighter he burned, A hand entered his frame of vision, He looked up to the ray of light, The soul shattered, so did my dream, There I sat, cogitating all night! Credits; Lake Minnewaska Photo Gallery

Out of the Mist

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