I stood there in my balcony, looking at the blue sky, welcoming the day after a night of heavy rainfall. There is something about a cloudless sky, its shiny and sparky, like a cleanly wiped slate, but it seems to appear like its missing something, as though its lonely, it wants to be occupied, be accompanied by anything, be it a cloud, an airplane, or like many days, a stray cloud.
I looked at the patterns, these clouds made on the blue sky. They are mesmerizing, and intriguing. The things we see in those patterns, the faces that come up, the thoughts they inspire in you, and the flavor they add to the bland cup of coffee in your hand, just fascinating.
I tend to be believe, there has to be a brush which stroked them this way, I am sure, there are people out there who stroke these patterns, if not many atleast a few, who must have enjoyed every bit of their art, because it shows. It is like that obvious difference in the taste, which you cannot point to, when you eat a meal cooked by a happy chef, and then one by a person who wanted it, to taste right and do his job. Looking at these patterns makes me believe; they never make them, but actually create them. You cannot prepare people to create, you can always train people to make things, but never to create. I believe people who paint these patterns, are the ones who create them, every single day, and just don’t make them. The art of giving us, the audience, the joy, isn’t a sport for them to play, compete and succeed rather it’s their love for creation, and for things they do.
The human mind is so much similar to the blue sky, the shiny sparky slate, right after a dreadful relationship, a horrible friendship, a stressful assignment, or for that matter a plain horrible day. But when we wake up from it, and tend to look at the beautiful patterns, left in us, by those great men, who find their joy in leaving us with these treasures, memories, emotions and feelings, it makes me wonder, would these patterns ever be the what they are to us today, if people who stroked them as a sport. As a skill which is governed by rules, something they have been taught, they have practiced and they want to succeed in.
I have always wanted my emotions to be passionate, be it happiness, rage, sadness, excitement or anything for that matter. Moderate isn’t good enough for me, and I want to see the passion in people. If you hate me, hate me fully, do not just frown behind my back, or sabotage me. Just kill me, shoot me down is what I would say. I would imagine, my relationships to be one such affair too, full of burning passion, a high by which I can remember them, a tag for the moments of intimacy shared.
I wonder, if relations and emotions become a sport, where people play fairly, adhering to the proper rules, preparing themselves for the good and bad that comes out of it, anticipating the moves of the other person, and coming up with counter tackles. would those twinkles still twinkle?
The supreme power who makes us do, things we do, or lets just refer to pure randomness which governs our actions in life, and assume the randomness personified, is sitting up there smiling at the moves which we make, thinking its our free will. The joy he derives in messing around with us, giving us these moments of happiness and grief, a mixture of emotions, which turn out to be a pure bliss, both for him, and us, in retrospect. Would these moments be bliss, if he played us in a sport?, if he stuck to his rules, and took the most rational decision in order to win, every creation he makes. Would these moments be bliss.?
This is a proof for the biggest defeat for a poet, when he needs to write prose to explain his poem. This thought had been in my mind from the day I posted the poem here. I just thought may be you guys would like to read what I really meant the poem to be.