Chiffonesque

...this thought. Even if there is no meaning to any of this - to life, to death, to the stumbles or strides in between - the quest for it itself is evidence of something invincible inside of us. Invincible, yet vulnerable. The stuff real heroes are made of.

Everything seems so long ago, Everyone seems so far away, Peeking through soft pink blooms I only see the stormy grey. It comes with stealth and quickly so It stops a while, then quits the day While pink blooms drift with long agos And the far aways are here to stay

Given the state of the world, if a company offers you 'world-class service', is it really a good thing?

Organizations that harp on their 'out-of-the-box' solutions... Wouldn't they be more believable if they described those solutions as something other than 'out of the box'? Let's face it - 'out of the box' is the most boxed-in description of creative anyway.

The more I stay away, the more I see it clearly and understand....the awesomeness that is Mumbai.

Why does 'I don't give a shit' mean that something is not important? (Whatever it is that we are not giving a shit about.) Because, you see, anything that can be traded off with excreta, even if it is our own, can't possibly be all that great.

I'm sitting on the pier watching the Manhattan skyline. Above me, droopy branches of willow sway to a cool, windy lullaby. The water looks like a grey satin blanket under which rolls of pennies shift rhythmically. The light in the sky seems to have the sun dusted off of it. So it glitters prettily on every reflected surface without the singe. It dances off the handle of a pram, the curve of a ring, mirrored building walls. It even flecks off beads on a skirt. Ahead of me I see buildings - stacks of concrete and steel. They are shaped long and narrow - like weapons. If the skyline had to suddenly get animated and thump forwards to take over the city, the invasion would be quick and smooth. These tools are supposed to be sharpnels that eke out any humaneness from civilization. Yet... ...yet each building reflects the one opposite it. One structure gets fused inside another.  The steel cradles each sunbeam and tosses it out. The light bends, moves, pirouettes, and seems to trace e

Maybe the beginning of this morning has its twisted genesis many moons ago. Maybe this morning started when I first pondered over the word' skyscraper' and was awed by what it suggested. Maybe it was when I first registered the reflection of Bombay's silhouette in the shimmering sea. It was like watching the solidness of a concrete jungle ballet-dance, wearing the satin slippers of time - beautiful, ephemeral, and very poetic. This morning, I stood in the balcony of the apartment in Jersey city where I'm putting up. There was a bite in the air and crisp, pure sunlight all around. I held my first cup of tea this morning - one that I'd brewed at 6:30 a.m. It feels like a sweet dream. Watching the curlicues of steam waft up and disappear into a blue sky. Through the barks of a few bare trees, I can see the Manhattan skyline rise tall and proud. Yet it shimmers in the waterfront like a shy ballet dancer on stage for the very first time. It's my first time here.

Piety comes Seeping through weeks, Soaking day one and drenching night seven. But then moisture Gets chased out in the sun Harangued by light, yet high-fiving heaven.