Old Memoirs Revisited

The following are posts from my old blog. These are nothing more than the odd scribbles and notes written during the years that I struggled to complete my first novel.

Sit under a green tree. Watch a sluggish stream flow by. Caress wildflowers blossoming across verdant meadows. Sing a song when no one is listening to you. Swoon on a bed of dandelions. 
And grasp life by the sashes she wears around her delicate waist.
Sauntering across moments…

Today memories from the East threatened to burn down my house. Darkness still lingers within long spent fires and their seductive smoke rings.

I have become the gypsy of the highways. Not even love can mend this blistered heart. Cobblestones and mementos…

The storm has passed and I am still at sea. 
The blue sky quivers in the horizon. 
Is it my imagination or are the heavens making love to the shivering waves? 
Poised on the edge of consciousness…

Cherishing you within the darkness of my irises I forget that you are a man. To me you become fireflies on the wing enamoured by the haunted ruins of my ancient life. 
The fires burn low. The fireflies smoulder. This broken body crumbles at your feet…
Gliding across quagmires…

Am I a rainmaker? Are these gypsy drops mine? Will they ever water the earth? 
But where is my earth? Which is my earth? 
I am merely a barren land crisscrossed by hungry cracks…open maws shrieking at the Indian summer sun.
In eternal damnation…

I was walking towards you across lifetimes. But I came to know about it the other day when your blue eyes showed me galaxies and universes unheard of.
Drenched in blueness…

Love…a pearl curled up in an oyster or a seashell languishing on the shores of nothingness.
Love…brilliant and brazen, soft and unassuming…liberating me from the shackles of mediocrity. 
On the shores of unending blue seas…

Sometimes dreams tiptoe across thresholds. Sometimes they flutter in through windows. And then sunshines flower and moonbeams flicker and time pirouettes on twinkle toes.
Waltzing with my dreams…

Isn’t it better to write and not simply chronicle? 
Isn’t it better to write for and out of emptiness than expect an audience? 
Open doors and translucent windows…

Out of the blue grasses and the wood smoke rise tiny dreams of unknown lands of the East. Out of morning dewdrops and the mist that hangs like a wispy thin curtain of misplaced love rises a life so little and insignificant that perhaps a gentle nudge of a truant breeze is enough to scatter it all over verdant meadows like abandoned dandelion tufts. And maybe out of all this is awakened the desire to go back to the old..the known…the easily understood pathways…Swept away by the wind…

red roses on black typewriter

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