SepticPen ... by ... Sachin Modeel

Prologue

I watch drops of water fall from the ends of my hair. They streak down my face, puddle in my hands. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my ears.

Rain.
I look up to see the smoke-stained skies cry.
All heavenly things disappeared,
behind the grasping veil of thick clouds.

I dint feel like running for cover, cause  I was in the middle of the running track, and I knew running to the nearest shelter wouldn’t alter my chances of getting drenched.I sit down by the track. The dusty trees far away were changing hues. I try to be light as air. But my mind is wild, the voice back in my head, a sound track for catastrophe, and drowns everything out.

I try not to blink for too long,
when I do I see creatures of the past.
I try not to keep my eyes silent for too long either,
for then visions of the future haunt me.

Desperate thoughts of a Desperate being.

When you stand in the rain, you are not really standing at the place you were before it started to rain. The beauty of the rain is in its ability to transport you to the realms of reality which you would seldom walk into on your own. For the curtain of rain drops shuts out the world and makes you stand at a place you normally wouldn’t visit without the company of the immensity portrayed by rains.

I was woken up out of the heavy sleep
I carried around in my head.
The rains had transported me to a world unknown.
I found myself in the brink of an abyss,
the melancholy valley of unending wailings and emptiness. 

I walked afraid and lonely,
in the valley of the Phantoms of the Ages. 
Every time I  blink I can see,
a giant ghost-like hypnotic ghastliness far away. 
approaching me.
I turn around and walk the other way.
I walk against the winds,
winds that seemed to carry sighs of an eternal sorrow.

In the life of every man there occurs at least once a time when the insides, the soul, seems to abandon, for a brief period, the body, and, elevate itself above mortal affairs, to grasp the perplexity of experience. Here the spirit separates itself from its own rigidity, struggle, resistance, conformity, and attachment to be unified with the spirit of the cosmos, albeit briefly. All important revelations, changes in our character, intuition, silence and peace, are brought about by these crises of life which causes the experiencing self to be withdrawn briefly to its universal nature.

There was a deep silence amidst the noise of the rain,
and that peace which comes when all things are alone.
The aloneness of being, that is uncorrupted, rich, complete.

That oak tree has no other existence than being itself.
So is this aloneness.
There is an aloneness intertwined with the fabric of existence.
There is an inherent aloneness in experience.
An aloneness that stems out of the wholeness of life.
We are born alone, but we hide this truth from ourselves.
We grow old alone, but as much as possible we deny this again.
Then those who kept our company in denial start disappearing.
Where are they?
We cant believe they are gone from this world.
We then start to slowly arise out of this deception.

The ghostly being behind,
no farther than ‘twas,
and no closer shall it be.
It read my thoughts,
and changed directions before I could.
I wondered,
if it was following me or leading me.

Then la morte, the greatest denial we carry within….
We are to face our death alone,
and at that point of existential realization
that you are going to die,
its too late to understand aloneness.
For then fear creeps in,
and fear is the very negation of all that is life.
We are to understand the aloneness when fear is not.
For from that aloneness alone arises love, which is its own eternity.

The hills on the horizon were melting away
into thick shadows of the dark.
Were these thoughts that were whispered,
mine, or of this forgotten shadow far behind,
I wondered who this ghost was, 
I turn around to ask…
the winds change direction
and no longer carry my thoughts to it…
Its arms are now trying to reach me from far away,
as if it was trying to hold and separate me from the rains,
But as the rains began retreating,
All that was seen was transfiguring,
like the shadows of an unborn God,
lost between heaven and earth.
And all I heard from the disappearing valley of the unknown,
was a faint whisper carried by the winds…
“Erzahler”….
.

this was the tale of how i met Erzahler…
trapped in the world sheltered by the rains.

To be continued….

Note:
The Verse here has an identity of its own, and can be read without the prose in between. This rather curious and strange incident does not end here, and nor does the writer’s modest philosophy, they shall show themselves again more fruitfully in future posts.

I woke up dreaming of music. A faint echo of the final chords, of the dream, fades within me.  I feel old. I am suddenly afraid of the aloneness I trusted so dearly only yesterday. I try to squint and focus on the hue of brightness around me. I had fallen asleep under the table lamp. I realize morning would be a while.

In the windows there is no light
so I am sure waiting outside,
and trying to hide,
is the darkness of the night.

In search of lightness, I decide take a walk, watch the sunrise, run a few rounds… all these were plans of a cowardly self to escape an infinite solitude that was creeping in.

When I was young, 
I whispered secrets to the winds.
beautiful melodies they composed,
never heard but forever sung.

When I was young, I whispered secrets to the wind. The winds composed their melodies from secrets, that dreamers like me have, confided in them. The winds have always carried melodies and played it for everyone, yet very few are aware of the elegant symphonies even the lightest breeze renders.

The winds carry secrets to far away lands, and over time the secrets grow into memories. The winds once carried their own secrets but over the years the heaviness of remembering one’s own past weighed them down. It is the winds that prayed for mankind to be given the gift of hearing. Why? because they were lonely as they sang their memories for millions of years. Although, heard by the trees and tiny forms of life. They longed not just to be heard but also to be understood. And that understanding they knew, could only come from a human soul.

On this cold December night, the winds found me walking on a solitary path. The trees close by had withdrawn into their silence and darkness. I knew I was cornered by the winds. The shadows were thick and dark, and so were the memories the winds ushered to me. I stood and listened in silence.

We are but beings of our own forgotten past. This remembrance of things past, awakened a sadness deep within. I was at a loss for thoughts. A resonance of unapproachable sorrow was felt within. This inner vortex of heaviness, suffering in the most innate form. It was there along with the silence of the trees and the path I was walking.

I felt sorry for all that within. The human condition, Dostoevsky called it. I felt a compassion for the human condition, my human condition, this constant undercurrent of turmoil within. And in the silence I was also able to sense the compassion, that this suffering we have built up within, was feeling toward us as well. Our vantage points though different, creates a movement that shall culminate in universal good. I was for a while, on this cold December morning, at peace with all within.

On this cold December morning,
I was  for a while, at peace with all within.

P.S: 
I feel I have been a little uncharitable to the art of verse, during recent months. Yet I must not blame myself for greats things that have decided not to bless me with their presence.  “Works of Art are of an infinite solitude”, any approach to understand their origin and their ways are useless. The works write themselves. I am but a mere scribe for these words. Words that are so delicate and the meaning which they point to ever obscure.

Photo Credits:
flickr.com/photos/willrad/         CC-redistributable
flickr.com/photos/andrein/       CC-redistributable
flickr.com/photos/todesengel/  CC-redistributable

…William Blake

Glimpses of reality fade away,
as I slip into gentle sleep,
But what I see at the other end,
is just as sad and deserves a weep.

Sleepless night. I hear the leaves rustling in the trees outside my window. Its late , too late into the night. I decided to step outside and have a look at the clouds, half expecting a rain. The air turned still as I walked into the night. The trees fell silent. The turmoil inside was still there. I walked as a man worn down by the load of the world. I sat down at a place close to the trees. The voice inside wondered why the trees fell silent, and winds deserted me.

The heaviness inside was reminding of its existence every now and then. I looked at the sky and could see only a few stars. The moon must have been hid by a few clouds sharing a thought or two about taming the winds. The stars reminded me of the story about the astronomer:

In the shadow of the temple my friend and I saw a blind man sitting alone. And my friend said, "Behold the wisest man of our land."

Then I left my friend and approached the blind man and greeted him. And we conversed. After a while I said, "Forgive my question, but since when hast thou been blind?"

"From my birth," he answered.
Said I, "And what path of wisdom followest thou?"
Said he, "I am an astronomer."
Then he placed his hand upon his breast, saying, "I watch all these suns and moons and stars."

-- Kahlil Gibran

I wondered how many men like me came and sat near these trees over these years. I wondered what these trees thought about mankind. Man who walks by it frowning every day. man, with his endless problems. man with his need to reach some where, every time he walks. man the neurotic beast. man with his burden of listening to the incessant radio inside. Our pathetic little condition, our restlessness, our search, our unsatisfactoriness, our noise.

I was growing weary of the voice inside. If the the winds could carry our thoughts, I wonder if the trees would wish to hear them. The trees stood beside me full of green leaves. The trees stood very quietly, in all their purity, in all their dignity. The trees exist completely, utterly, simply fully. In their vastness you are to realize your own. In their quietness you are to recognize your your. In their purity you are to allow your own to surface.

The winds gently came wandering back after a while. I felt them running through my fingers, I could sense an affection in their touch. They made their way toward the trees. And then began the great discourse , the discourse the trees gave me. The tree sutta. A quiet discourse. In their endless rustling, and moving with the winds was a silence that made its way into me and awakened the stillness within. I sat there simply and fully listening to the tree. For in the absence of words, the voice within had nothing to judge, nothing to interpret. For the beginning of the listening to absence of words was the very end of the noise within. I sat there among the trees. A silence within listening to a silence throughout.

I know not how long I sat there. For in their grace and quietness was the forgetfulness of time. For then, I was one with the Trees. its Silence.

The trees speak to us all the time, it is when we choose to listen fully and quietly that the we are one with the tree, with its purity, its serenity, its quietness, and its vastness. And more importantly it is then that we are at one with The Wholeness of Life.