A few things that are happening.

 The year is about to come to an end. It's the fifth of November. Presidential elections for the states in the west. Who is going to check the authenticity of news sources. Media now a social media. Polarisation of views. Who will celebrate the complexity? The need for self belief in creativity. For no one, but for the self. A lot of inner work as compared to fixing things outside. Focus. Focus. Align the different lenses. Bring it all into focus. And then point the laser. Let it stay, fixated on that towards which you point. Can you look at it? Straight ahead? Or within? The singularity. 

Dreaming of the bloom, with the present unattended.

In the summers I hope for it to be autumn soon. The leaf that has turned brown way after it could turn red. Redness is the heat I associate with summer. A fire that could only be quenched by the monsoons and the autumn. In autumn I crave for winters. White pearl like snow instead of the messy trail of leaves. My feet crunch with too much noise as I walk towards my school, reminding me that death too makes sound. The chill of the winters would give me a break in pursuing my studies, that go on and on, to never end. During winters, I miss the spring. The lack of colour on a white sheet of paper, inviting me to fill it up with something - anything, that isn’t empty. The ones who live in the mountains know that they are the ones that are plain. Ornamentation, and carnation, still, could only be achieved by the spring. Spring reminds me that summer is around the corner. But the thought is erased as the leftover winds from December give my skin the respite. With flowers whose name I couldn’t name, with colours I could only try to reproduce, I take a deep breathe and hold on to the smells, knowing that I would never bloom that exact way ever again. And then the heat rises. The sun during noons, close, and right above. The summer brings in its single truth. The harsh. The needed. The only one thing that I seem to forget about throughout the rest of the year, waiting, season upon season. Could I be more like the green leaves? They flourish even after the flowers have given way to fruits. They bask in the sun, not caring about the outcome. The rains come in swiftly, as if wiping down upon their surface, treating them for a job well done, a life well-lived. Then, they slowly turn red, orange, brown, before breaking away. I find them beneath my feet as I crunch them with my steps on my way to school, hoping for it to be winter soon.

Two times the home.

Two times the home,
Stepping stone or the end?

And time picks you up like a babe just born,
enveloping you in the shards of creation.

Frequently one would pick the closest line of conversation,
and cast away the things that aren't really needed.

And the shards are plucked into gems of distinct shape and shine,
glass, mirrors, and all made of sand.

This sand will slip through your fingers, time and time again,
as you try to hold on to something, that exists.