My Cycle of Goodbyes


It isn’t easy to let you go. It is like sending a soldier to war despite knowing that he shall never return – either the defeat will destroy him or he shall succumb himself to the struggle for victory. We are, but like, these weeping parents sending our child to fight another absurd battle. And in a way, when poets say that the clouds are weeping when it rains, they are true, for weep we do as you leave the skies and sail towards the bottomless world.

I wonder how you gather the courage to undertake a feat of such measure and uproar. How you gather the spirit and courage to leave the freedom of the skies – a freedom sought by an entire universe that walks without wings, with feet coupled to the ground – individuals who can only look up to the open firmament with an unattainable desire of attainment.  But the trophies of the free sky never impressed you my young, for you are noble and wise, just as you are tender and full of empathy.

You travel the heavens to quench the thirst of a hopeless, unsolicited dry land and bring boundless joy to an ignorant earth.  I wonder how you gather such happiness from your own fall. “But mother, I am friends with the wind and the boats, and in love with the laughter of young children who dance to my song,” you say. You are gracious my love, and full of a courage I know you did not get through lineage for we are earthly and incapable of such bravery.

I see you as you leave me, without pain or sadness, and the sands drink you up greedily and I think of them as selfish. But as I sit and ponder in the metaphoric sea of thought, I suddenly see a glimpse of you in a seven color spectrum in the sky. My love, I smell you in the fragrant waves of wet sand and I see your trace in the happy dance of thriving trees. I hear your music long after it stops playing, my love, in the smiles of famished children.

And at last I see you rise above again, in changed form, and give birth to young white clouds and rejuvenating purity. And I realize that you are immortal, my darling, and you continue to live in hearts and spring in souls.  I know now that you are the personification of complete happiness and hope to a sad people.

You live in end and after death my beloved. You are a martyr. You, dear Rain, are eternal just like the happiness you have always wished to entice.

Your Loving Mother

The Cloud

Each Feather, A Freedom


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.

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