Oh to be alive

A flowing stream of light streaked in from the little nick in the sturdy, wooden door. Strange patterns played on the wall opposite his study table as he sat at an angle, trapped within the wall and the door. Well, was it just a nick or several, created by the innumerable spats the door had had with the outside world, he mused. The light trickling in and the interplay of moving images were a delight to watch. The dancing minuscule dust particles that seemed to be moving to an unheard rhapsody was fine on a cool day such as this, but in bone-chilling winters the same crevices played havoc in the room, freezing him to the core. He stared for as long as he could at the play of light on the dappled wall, or was it the dappled light on the coarse wall that created the design? He had never gotten down to repairing it, either because he couldn’t or because he shouldn’t? That was the only dilemma playing out in his mind day in and day out, perpetual, present and pertinent . Well, ...

I am a bubble, frail and diaphanous; I am a rock, solid and opaque. I am tiny grains of sand completely formed, yet ready to scatter when airborne. I am the Sun, burning bright; I am the Sun turning cold at my own plight. I am water flowing freely, or caught in the endless wait to convert myself so others, can see or feel me once again. I am so many things yet none, I am a king at one moment or just dust, ready to merge with the scum. I am who I am, so let me be, I am who I am, I am me… He stood precariously balancing himself at the edge of the wall, teetering almost ready to fall off. What others couldn’t tell and least of all see, was the steely resolve in his eyes as he poised himself. Everything around him had been tumultuous from the very beginning; at first he hadn’t noticed that it was on the inside, he always felt he was queer, perhaps different.     He levitated toward the sound a...

Intrigued, enamored or beholden? Which one of these would fit the bill? All three, perhaps, when it comes to some stories, one has either read or heard in childhood;   one often wants to, or tends to keep revisiting them at different points of time for different reasons.   Some tug at the heart strings, creating sensations unfelt, some make one wonder, raking up unfathomable depths that were until then beyond one’s ken and some just grip one mesmerizingly. Others raise questions and some just leave a string of unresolved, unanswered bubbles in the air and so evasive are they that even getting a close look at them is not only unmanageable but is a strangely cumbersome act, as one tries to clasp them as they flit by. They float around, vigorously bouncing sometimes; sometimes their diaphanous presence palpable and more often than not they are suspended in time, moments and memories coalesced forever.   Any number of attempts to retrieve them in the firs...

She barely breathed, so they could sleep, she toiled all day, with ineffable glee. Her happiness lay in the little things, rejoicing at your first step, sighing as you smiled in your sleep.       There can be none like her, for she gave life to another.   She died a little every day, when someone hurt her little ones, recklessly.   She gave you wings and let you soar, she showed you oceans, waves hitting ashore. She knew when to let go and when to hold you close, she was and will always be the only one who makes you breathe. ©Copyright Suverchala Kashyap