Nope. Not reading.

Looking at all these unread books lying in front of me, I feel guilty. Bad. Sad and depressed for my inability to do justice to them. 

While crossing all these beautiful libraries around, while looking at these people completely engrossed deep down in a world so far away of words. I wonder. I imagine. I irresistably wonder. If only all books could be squeezed into a magical potion; that I could simply drink and know all of what's there. 

Since the last few months, I haven't been able to complete even a single book. All these pretty titles. Each time I pick or get a new book, I feel my heart skipping a beat. Yet another. This time, I promise I'll start. But somehow, I don't. I don't, perhaps, because overtime, I seem to have grown attach to books. To topics. To the whole feeling of reading and knowing so much. The feeling has grown into this overpowering emotion that leaves you completely overwhelmed. Just one page. It takes just one page of absolutely any book here to get me thinking at the pace that I am unable to keep. Just like often, we struggle to keep pace with expressing our rapidly occurring thoughts through words. Just like so, I struggle to keep pace with my accelerating heartbeat and ideas/opinions that start playing formula 1 within my neurons set. 

I then feel like that sea. One of those two seas in Palestine. The first one is fresh with fish in it. It gives life. It shares life. It perhaps is more capable. Because it gives more. It is beautiful. It is alive with flow. Receives and gives. And then, there is another one. Dead. No life. Perhaps because it retains the water it receives rather than giving it forward. It is dead with no flow. I feel like the dead one. Not because I have no avenues to give. But because I feel I don't. So after reading a page, I don't know how to share. what to share. Who to share it. I feel so high according to worldly standards that I am afraid of being labelled crazy. And hence, I curb it. I curb myself by not reading. By not picking up another book. 

Here. I said it. I haven't been reading much. Maybe someday, I'd be successfully able to reach that second page of any of these beautiful titles lying in front of me. Gracefully, maybe then, someday, I'll absorb each word and feeling behind each word so well. Maybe then, I'd also patiently sit and feel secure. Among all these books. The day, when I wouldn't need to struggle to keep up with my need to express what I have just learnt. I'd just sit and watch while the aura of literary sphere help me transfuse to the environment. 

Until then, I sit here. With my books. Some of them the best of the best titles. Life changing ones. I sit with them, inhaling deeply their smell. Wishing that I was worthy of reading and sharing in real time. 

Stolen words

(wise) postcards from London - Words of a word while visiting her here.

There are two kinds of people in the world. People who proactively want something. They know the art of dreaming and wanting. But then, there are people who haven't really wanted anything. They don't want anything. They are happy, proud little individuals living in their world with anything and everything that they can and can't have. All settled. All happy. 

Until one day, a feeling comes in. You're caught unaware. Something you never knew you'd had to feel. Something you didn't ask for.

It comes un-welcomed. Doesn't knock. Doesn't tell. It seeps into your skin and spreads gradually. Making you suffer. You run away from it. You can't. Every attempt at cure seems to fail. The problem with it is, you can't even let it be. Because the pain is so intense at times, that it can't let you sit still

It makes you feel so vulnerable, so exposed that you fear others may look at you and realize that you are infected. You can't hide it yet you can't deny it. Its weird. It comes and goes. Makes you so numb to the world happening around you. You attempt to fill up that space with other things. But it just remains. Stubborn. You feel helpless. You are disappointed at your loss.

Because you know, even if the feeling is healed, even if the vacuum is filled, you may not want the thing that fills it. For the intensity of its absence is so painful that you are too scared to face its presence. You very well live the brutality.

After this pain, only something eternal can fill it perhaps. Nothing human. Not even the reason, the entity, the being that caused it unknowingly.

Its not a feeling. Its living with cancer, not knowing when you'd reach the point of indifference. You see that beautiful pathway in the park there? You want to hold your hand and walk yourself to the point of indifference. Right there. 

A little fool

It was a bright sunny day. Just like any other. 
Little did the leaf know, it was to become the day like no other. 
A perfect little sight from the tree it hung unto
Around with the perfect city breeze. 
The leaf did not know what the world held for it. 
An hour or two passed, when the leaf felt the pain. 
The pain of separation from what it did not own. 

It felt it bad. And knew its end. From the beginning of the illusion. 
It remembered and recalled the fate of the others, while it was blossoming in its springtime. 
The leaf, a little fool, despite knowing its fate, couldn't comprehend the pain of its separation. 
The leaf, a little fool, felt insecure and ugly. Felt how low and poor it was, despite the world taking pictures of it. 
So the little fool, set out a reminder. Each day, each hour, each moment it murmured. Just a bit more and then I shall be free. 
The little fool could not. Neither give in or leave. What it felt was what it really couldn't comprehend. 

The little fool then finally met its day to end. 
But before that it had to, feel and plead its case. 
Bit by bit, it felt naked. Exposed with its vulnerability. 
Exposed to the brutal and changing winds of time. 
It understood yet failed to act on what it saw. 
It saw and it felt yet failed to combat what it felt. 
It understood the nature, it understood the time. 
But it never understood the fallacy of falling for a tree. 
Caught unprepared, it fell for a tree. 
It spent all seasons fighting its reality. 
It dawned upon it, its denial beaten, when the tree welcomed the cold winds and let the leaf fall. 
The little fool, smiled, Ashamed at its exposure. 
Exposure to the tree that befriended just coldness.

The little fool, knew, its ugliness, its position. It felt so small, so little as it fell.
The little fool tapped itself and whispered in its last breath of pain, just a bit more my little fool, just a bit more.
Nobody noticed as we all walked away. In that park in corner on a bright sunny day.
The little fool, smiled, finally. Alas, at its end. One last time, it looked at the huge wonderful tree, smiled to itself, just a bit more little fool, just a bit more.
There it lay, peacefully, its death so sweet, its bitter pain finally put to an end.

The day began to set, the little fool at peace. 

As another season passed and another fool peeked, from the roots of the tree. 

Its time, its nature, its life. 

Just a bit more to each little fool.