Each Feather, A Freedom

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A piece of emotionally driven naked Truth; the honest Truth that follows Oppression; the Oppression that plucks my Feathers; Each Feather, a Freedom.

Your freedom is truly yours. Other’s rules can’t govern you. The just of someone else’s subjective understanding cannot stop you. Their words, and sarcasm and accusations can’t cage you. Their laws can’t dictate you.  Their morality is not the law. Their right and wrong, is not your siege, is not your limit, is not and can never be your chain.

When I stand in my balcony and I gaze at the sky, a flock of birds usually passes overhead. Flying, breezing past me. Just like the wind with which it dances. I smile almost every time, but today, I stood and I pondered. What does their flight mean? Just another simple act of nature, with no questions and no spindle-ends to it? No, it wasn’t frivolous, I knew it.

Almost out of the blue, yesterday on my way back home from school, among the many broken, eaten and almost cracked walnut shaped baseballs, and wrappers right in front of my house, was a very pretty butterfly lying on the ground, dead.  Its colour was that of the deep sea, where the sea horse lives, amidst the turquoise and navy.

If I look at the trivial events about me, I might go dim for a moment and revert back to what I was doing. But if I not look but see, there comes to light an unconventionally divine symbolism, from the golden gates of the priest:

“Each wing, is a symbol of freedom. Each feather, each hair- a joyous expression of being free.”

Each wing, is a symbol of freedom. Each feather, each hair, a joyous expression of being free. Each plume, each quill is freedom. Every burst of wind that makes the leaves fall, every laughter, every No to the oppressive and wordy, every rebel, each tear, each answer to every question, every word I write, everything you say and do, nature’s call is freedom.

And if a rule stops me, if a morally correct value, if the right way of doing things, if verdict from the wise and old, if anything at all differs to be, it shall impede my freedom. It shall pluck my wings, it shall curl my feathers. It shall cage me and let me not fly.

What stops me is suppression. What compels me to do what I do not wish to is the oppression of the mainstream; the words of those who are habitual of having dictated and accustomed to be listened to; the power of the one with the higher stature; the poise of the bosom of the one who shall not bend low in hail and storm. What stops my freedom is not the wise lion or the golden tongued virtuous saint, what stops me is the coward fox who would certainly not listen to one who goes against him. What stops me is the decree of those with the cage. A cage rigged with the lilies of beholden favour hidden below the weeds of goodwill.

When this oppression cages me and makes me green, when their tight sword of rules makes me bend and succumb, when it indoctrinates my understanding and subjection, when it takes me in its cubature and paints me a colour of itself, only to release a dummy that runs on its clockwork, and in the release offers me the porch to watch the world I deserve from a distance, grants me the window sill graciously to feel the wind I should be dancing in, presuming I would jump and fail to the ground, then I shall I lift my claw and shed the dust. I shall tremble and take flight again. I fly, for the colour of its rules fails to paint each feather. Each feather, that has somewhere within it the essence of me. My rules. My subjection. My objection. My view. My decree. Each feather that has still a bit of me, each feather with my freedom.

Daily Post: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/11/27/prompt-boldy/

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La Super Marché

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A trip to the supermarket meant the world to me as a kid. Having grown up a little, and missing those times, I try recalling why.

Spending Sundays in summer shopping was the most perfect job (Oh my, pardon the alliteration!). A list on a neat, two file plain paper written by my mother, stuck between my knuckles, with both my hands fixed on the stands of the trolley cart, I would explore through the aisles and passages of the grocery store at the mall.  Handling the lists and trolley meant a great deal to me, a task, which when accomplished would add another insignia to my virtual collar.  

It was like a castle in itself, a ruby here and there, hidden treasure somewhere, something new at every turn, the anchorage of adventure and window to amateur exploration.

“What’s next?” My father would ask. Those golden words would bring my eyes to a particular attention that I, as a kid, specifically used to associate with corporate mannerism! I would narrow down the list, on which I would neatly scribble out and tick items accordingly, and shout out the next item. With little discussion on which brand, and what size, my father would add another something new to the cart. And my eyes would oomph, examining what this alien commodity has brought new to my spacecraft.

I would stare at the tall, elephant high racks and shelves, like a squirrel looks at its nut: lined with cartons of cereal, bottles of all shapes and sizes with liquids of every colour oozing and bubbling inside, boxes with cream and cookies, sprays and beauty caboodle, and delicious toppings for breakfast, quick food, soups, books, and candles, perfume and antiseptic and detergents,  wishing I was a small mouse, so that I could squirt and scuttle through the narrow maze between these giants and have other adventures of my own.

From aisle to aisle and section to section, choosing good eatables and powder for home, running about with a huge trolley and music plugged in my ears, the world felt perfect. Adding a bar or two of snickers and other chocolates with alluring wrappers to the cart just before it’s our turn in the long queue. Making calls and multitasking and coming about busy and mature, it all felt right and wonderful. Like a drug.  

Before the airport became my favourite place, the grocery store at the mall was my only love. Not because of the stories and advertisements that updated me, or the wonderful people I met, not for I loved shopping with Daddy or because it meant privileged responsibility, but just because it was simpler. It was simple pleasure, to watch the colour and craft behind grocery shopping, which would have been a bore, had the mall not added the bling and superfluous cream to it. It was but a simple pleasure and a little joy I shall treasure forever, for reasons I, like many, will perhaps never know. 

Where Does Failure Put You?

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Failure. It’s one hard thing to deal with. Sometimes you do things that you’re good at, and you come out shining. Other times you go outside this zone and do something courageous. Something tough or challenging, or something not so effortless. You give it your best shot, with shudder and hesitance and conscious doubtfulness, but you do it. And being the go-goer that you’re, you hope you make it through with flying colours. However, life isn’t sweet. Challenges don’t always have happy endings. Every time you win, someone loses and at times you’re on the other side of the coin, say, where the grass is rather dry. But that doesn’t justify failing. It doesn’t mean it’s okay to fail, at least what anyone who wants to win would say.

No matter whether failure is necessary or not, it remains to be  bad and remorseful. If you have failed sometime in your life, be it in a relationship, a competition, a bet, a responsibility, a perspective goal or anything for that matter, I must give it to you that at the end of this post your failure will hurt only as much, it will pinch as hard, it will burn as much and scowl in your face only as before, but reading this will teach you that the time after you fail has a point, and that one day when you win, your mere heartbeat will beat the laughter of those million failures, and I cross my heart and hope, that it will inspire you to get there.

Failing shows much. I’ve learnt over the course of time that in doing something which I didn’t have prowess in, I learnt that I stand somewhere close to nowhere.

Failure depresses much. Its unkempt makes you weep, gets you sick and wailing, and cuss. Its horror makes you seek just another chance, a chance long gone. Makes you wonder what more could you have done. You scuffle for the just in it. You periscope for a bright side.

Failure teaches much. It gives you spite and scorn. It makes you realise the glory of victory. The shine of holding a trophy. The happiness in catching a high hung grape. It expresses the importance of the walk, the journey, every step that you take to the stage to your medal. It teaches you the pride felt in a ring of applause. It blows life into the importance expectations hold. It brings to light the acceptance of not having made it. It teaches you what difference one moment can make to your ‘idea’ of yourself.

Failure scares you. It makes you want to find escape. There’s emptiness. But more than anything else is the fright of giving up and losing hope.

Failure hurts much. It pushes you down, and tries to fill you with pessimism. It tries to make you settle for something you have the capacity to be above. It makes you give up.

But I for one, refuse to give up. I refuse to stop. I refuse to let go and stop trying. I refuse to drag ground from where I have fallen and stay static. I for one promise to rise up and walk, slow if maybe, in the face of failure that has pushed me down. I swear one day to win, to prove my worth and grow against it. I shall be the river, one which bunds of silt can’t stop. I shall be the wind that refuses to hold still. I shall rise up, when failure pushes me down. I refuse to let failure put me to stop. I deny it the right to define my journey’s result. And I say, you come along. For where does failure put you, if you refuse to go out there again and win?