दाग अच्छे हैं

 An aphorism is the most pretentious form of writing. Except for every other form. 

There is a certain rhythm to the internal tone with which a paragraph is written. A sense of song and improvisation as these words leave the tip of my metaphorical tongue. 

Today, I don't really know what I want to write. I do have a why, a spark of inspiration driven forth by some conversations to brew into a thunderstorm that demands articulation. 

But I don't really care about being incisive with my writing. 

To probe into the depths of humanity's deepest slumbers. 

Rather, I have been inspired to be - ignorance today. To play with resistance. 

The iceberg of my thoughts has long since been submerged into a water of the deepest spiritual garble. 

Metaphors that are extremely powerful, that come straight from the void. 

But. But. I don't like them. 

When I speak them through the voice of a reigning monarch instead of a Digonesian rebel who has given up they rage like a fire. They thunder with regal authority. 

Yet they don't dance and tingle with the irresistible warmth of a sincere love. 

And I don't like them. 

They leave behind charred remains, a tunnel drilled down into the core of our being. 

And I don't like them.

They don't bathe me in the fullness of a woman's beauty until I feel like I could die. 

They don't make me want to drown and dance to the rhythm of her eyes. 

They don't make me chuckle with wild abandon at the sheer irrationality of losing a game of seduction. 

They don't make me watch the sunlight bounce of and imbue the trees with the most brilliant green I have ever seen. 

So yeah, I don't really like them.


The point of this writing is not for anyone else. It is a selfish endeavour for me to perfect the craft. 

So now we teleport to the polished wooden floor of a monastery. 

So shiny is its teak that one's face is reflected in its veneer. 

So beautifully crafted is each wall of the room that one sees an infinite expanse whenever/wherever his senses try to grasp. 

Each touch of a ray sent from my eyes is an intimate mediation on the walls. 

A samurai sits there with a wet stone, shining and sharpening a sword. 

An image of stoic stillness. Of contentment and of perfection.

And I approach the neatly haired gentleman one soppy step of mud at a time. 

I'm sure he wouldn't mind some puddles of slop that have been layered onto my shoes in pure joy.

The joyous shrieks that birthed the dirt remind me of the fragility that sparks old age. 

Cracking bones, unturned stones, home loans. Un-understood koans(?)

And slowly we tell the kids not to play. 

The samurai once approached a djinn to ask him a truth of life. 

The djinn had told him:

"We grow old because we stop playing, we don't stop playing because we grow old."

He had also cursed the samurai to pay an amount equal to the weight these words held for him as he aged. 

And so, the samurai fought for new gold every summer. 


As the samurai continues polishing his sword, a kid runs around his room. 

There is the classic poster of Einstein smiling like a retard in the corner. Standing in STARK contrast. A dirty paper taped to the walls. 

And below it mentions "The highest human act is to inspire". 

The child sits down a moment in a contemplative slumber. 

And he takes off his clothes, running naked to a shower. He now wants to be a clean person. 

A small smirk appears on the samurai's face. 

As he places his katana down and prays to it in gratitude, he turns and picks up the child's clothes. 

The fabric of his child's clothes is still warm and yet it is muddy from the rain. 

He remembers he is a कर्मयोगी 

And continues on his path. 

Namaste.

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