Lines, full of an era’s touch, were written. Some read and understood. Some followed. They tried. And then, lines were drawn.
Lines drawn were stone-solid, iron-hard. But time can always seep through and can rust till it is dust. Thus, lines started to fade.
Lines started to change. Change bloomed. They so rightly say, whatever is unimaginable is imaginable.
Lines are narrowed down to a box. A box in the head. The head awaits to breakaway, not realising that because it awaits, it awaits.
Lines are pruned to look similar, to look contemporary, to look right.
Lines are shredded. Words crippled, meaning transformed.
Lines like a guide help a seeker. The one who is seeking life meets the mid-way end. The end is the beginning.
Are you seeking life? In this very moment?
- Shakespeare’s Sonnet 107 and Timelessness
- Jasmine-Rich Raga
- Not Lithic
- Spirited Away and the Art of Forgetfulness
- O Apache!