The wheel of Time moves ceasing for none, winning over oceans, mountains, the sky, the wind and the fire.
People crowd to clench forms and beliefs, together they build and destroy. They wait to gauge for more and what is better.
Look now, how they shine, bright like fireflies, honest to the core; look now, how they lure, how they trick the tricksters, how they slay a man’s soul.
Speak not, for they are at work, cross-legged monks, meditating on what is less; speak not, for you will fail to express how chaotic is the chaos.
Rising high is the music of unity and harmony; falling face down is the corrupt, fake cry of every rigid mind.
Knowing the beginning, waiting for the end, it walks, it lingers, we walk, and we linger.
Lord Jagannath by Santanu Dash
Second eye says that it is all absolute bliss.
There is no Space or Time and it binds none; the ultimate end and the ultimate start merges with the absolute existence.
Flowing in a silent music, dancing always, the ripple reaches the centre.
The Brahman breathes; formless, it is of the colour peace.
Tala Pattachitra, Palm Leaf Painting – Odisha’s ancient art form
Lord Jagannath’s eyes are the universe we see and the universe we can’t see. The happy devotee who bows, who worships, who sings, who gazes gets mesmerized by one of the universes, and by Lord Jagannath’s smile.
Our million eyes find a million revelations in Lord Jagannath’s eyes.
A roguish year, 2020, I believe was a twist in our LIVE story. Terrible, oh, terrible things happened. Let us nurture hope, let us learn from our mistakes, let us help each other and contribute honestly to this change.
Let the old charm of stories work, let stories heal your tired heart.
This colossal twist proves that the great writer is planning to finish a chapter, but the story is far from over. Dawn is about to break, the sun rays will fall on a new beginning soon.
Come to Chiming Stories, pocket old and new posts and watch, along with me, the horizon.
Yes fly! For walking on the second track is dull and usual, but dreaming high, high, high requires tools. Tools like the right pair of shoes, a chirpy, gritty soul that eats butter-jam dreams, a soul that drinks milky-milky creams.