Love, Life and Happiness

Honesty is a lightening that shines bright across the sky, as deadly, as sudden and as brutal. In a sudden flash, through raging squalls, suddenly the dead, dark Earth breathes into life for a moment as the white light spreads across its face with a sudden urgency. It is this feature which makes life worth living in spite of all its inherent bitterness, and which redeems any literature. The truth which slowly crawls across wonderfully and delicately crafted words, makes it alive, and the truth of life shines in the lightening of the honest penmanship, like a passive earth in the sudden lightening in a night rain.  Fyodor Dostoyevesky's "Notes from The Underground" is one such book. I started reading this book, a sad and lonely epoch of my life, thrown away from the family for a longish travel on work. It is untrue that when you are down and depressed, you want to read something bright and sunny to lift you up. At least for me it is untrue. When I am down and out, I

Five years and a month back I lived, In and out of love, Love, Which much to my chagrin Would not spread  Over my head in a continuum. I was needed But not so much, I was loved But never so much. The longing Shadowed the moons Of brightest nights And the clouds Hung heavy in the cleanest skies. The journey of centuries Which traversed, Across several births Gasped and limped, With broken breath And battered soul. And then      Five years and a month back A head with scant hairs Looked at me With barely open  Blue eyes. I dropped A finger towards you And your soft, pink, palm Cuddled over it, Securing it  As a comforting coast  Does to the anchor  Of a tired ship. We went on walks While you  Smiled and stared back Like a little Buddha, In the small bed of yours; Set in the stroller, You saw the ducks For the first time, And with you I evidenced life for the first time, Drunk in our f

Wings in Solitude Courtesy: PS Extreme -Wallpaper It is not easy to survive a betrayal. It pushes the knife into your heart and then twists it for the assurance of a perfect kill. If the repeat acts of failed trust hurt more, it is the absurdity on your part of setting yourself as a sitting duck, twice in a row, which hurts more. You feel let down by yourself as your own intellect mocks your judgement. One can survive lack of intellect, but to live with a mocking intellect, an intellect which blames you for bringing it insult and ignominy is utter despair. Wasn't the intellect always telling you that you can not be friends with people who are not free?  A man, who is not free is not a man of integrity. What choice does he have, one may argue. It is not the question of what choice he has, it is the question of what choice you have. It is your own solemn responsibility to protect your self. You can not pass it on the one who perpetrates a nasty cut and looks at you with a