identity, life, soul




And, thus, under the ceiling of his room, with eyes open wide as the ocean, shining brighter than the sun, lay Kashiv.

“This, then, is where people come to live; I’d have thought it more of a place to die.”, the first lines of Rilke’s , The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, unsettled Kashiv. He had just started reading, and kept the book aside on his bed side table after the initial lines. May be, he was reading more than what the poet had intended it to mean, but, the beauty in is the way we understand it, even if it takes us to dark forests of thoughts. Sometimes, the bliss is not in being pulled out of the dark, but to remain there and make friends with the demons, and play with them, dance with them, understand them, and tell them, “sorry friends, I am your friend but, not one of you”, and then, stay there in the dark. Darkness is nothing, but, just an absence of the outside light, but, with the light inside your heart there can never be any darkness. This was where, Kashiv realized, he had come to Live.

Kashiv knew how it had started. The Sky was mysteriously transparent purple, the air pleasurably suffocating, the roads a mesmerizing desert, and the psyche full of despondent thoughts. Incarnation incarcerated. It was then that it , started.

And today, the eyes were open, but not seeing, his vision seemed to hang in the vacuum between the eyes and the head, but somewhere he saw a fly, restless. Before setting the fly free he wanted to give it a name, his name. A fly was trapped in the darkness of this night. It was unusual. The open air of the dark would have made it less claustrophobic  than the cramped dark room lighted by a pair of thirsty eyes. The fly fluttered its wings, unsure where to go, “out of sheer habit”,  concluded Kashiv.

His eyes followed the fly, striking the clear glass window. He could easily understand  the restlessness of the confused but tenacious fly.

Although the rain was intermittent, the sky now, when observed through the clear glass latched window, looked clear of black clouds and emblazoned with myriad sparkling stars of multifarious colors.

The night was inviting. He stared at the sky beyond the window. He stared for a very long time until he realized he was not watching the fly sitting on his arm, he blew cold air on his arm where the fly sat planning its escape, the fly, whom he had given a name, his name.

Getting back to how he was, he did not know how much time had passed, he remained. Building on his realization, he wrote:

Incarnation Incarcerated.

I want to be struck by the lightning. The pain I surrender to and the love I feel and anticipate, I want all to be struck by the lightning. I want to give in to it.

I want to burn down.

I will then rise like a phoenix.

The Incarnation Released.




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2 thoughts on “THE BEGiNNiNG”

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