Seasons

One more evening passing by, one more sunset on the horizon, one more struggle watching helplessly a day coming to an end, wishing for it to stretch a few hours more in hope of a miracle. In hope that those few hours are all that is needed to bring back that long forgotten smile, that much missed joy, that one reason to love life again.

Then nights. The hopes fading away like the vision of heavy weary eyes into a half sleep. The anguish slipping into a calm like a tired baby’s cry.

Numb. Blank.

Then…a new dawn. The first ray felt by the closed eyes. The first dim strokes of an old favorite colour on the horizon. The warmth like that of first streaks of light after a long polar night. The first chirping of an early bird on the roof and a light breeze. A faint rustling of dried leaves in the backyard…soft footsteps of someone approaching slowly. A smell of roses. A bright silhouette in the haze beyond the window and a hint of smile…that long forgotten smile?… A dream?…An end of a nightmare? A twinge and a fear…and a springtide of laughter…uncontrolled…wild…free.

Frozen…

But then again...everything melts and everything withers away. Life is just a passing of seasons.

Pandora - The planet of life

Nature's beauty in it's full, unscathed, untouched, unobstructed form. Resembles, in my mind, what our Earth must be like earlier. The Earth I miss. The Earth of the past, before man "claimed" it, the Earth of the future when Nature will claim it back. Dense lush forests...bulging, roaring and rushing rivers and falls. Clouds like mountains, mountains like clouds...Wind blowing freely and on them birds of infinite plumage. The unhindered growth, the NOT-over-sized vegetation, because nothing is "over"...and so is nothing "under". The people living in and among the nature, "connected" to it. As a part of it, like every other animal and bird does.

Slow death of greatness

It was once said to me, "A great man decays before dying."

I agreed then and I agree now. Greatness decays, phases out. From sunlight to starlight...It doesn't go in a flash. But the path it takes on it's fall is not the same as to the top. If it was, that would be a slight consolation. But it's not. And when this tower falls, one sees only dust. Everywhere...and everything is engulfed in it. Dust which drowns and chokes whoever is near. The shroud covers not only the dead but those who mourn. And when it settles, what lies there are the broken pieces, the remains of glory. People occupied in the memory of glory, not of the dead lying before them. The dead who achieved glory...and who decayed. And suffered alone as he witnessed what was being lost. He suffers because no one understands more than him as it was he who was Great. He suffers as he watches his fall from Nobility to commonplace, Pride to mere inertial superbia and then to no honour at all. He watches himself as he goes through this painful spiral from Inspiration to expiration. No one's suffering can be equal to his as he watches his Greatness flat-lining.