Pen holder

(Written sometime during 2017.)

There is a wonderful world of art waiting for you to knock on its door.

Knock. Knock.
Who is there?
A pen holder.

You just need to know the password. Ask for a hint?
Key.
Hint.
See and you shall look.

Now, you have to see and look and look and see.
Who are you?
Speak.
Eyes.
Bingo.

Now, after you get inside use your you-know-what and do what-you-do. Now, don't wait.
Hurry up. Enter!
Oh! wait. A warning first - You cannot leave and only enter.

What a boring place it was. There were vast stretches of nothingness all about. Everywhere you look, you can only find nothing. You walk, you walk on nothing. You see nothing. You look nothing. Even your hands, your body and your you-know-what mingles with nothing and becomes nothing.
What is this world of art, wonderful or not?
Doubt arises.
And lo and behold!

There is light all around and all kinds of strange pens. There is something strange about them. They are all pointed. Moving. Towards me.
I move here and there and they move too. Always coming closer. Closer and closer. I got real tense then and when the nearest was almost on my brink I shouted a scream -
'Stop.'
Oh! And they did. Stop.
I kept on looking at the spectacle. For a long time I remember. It was the start of a wonder. Pens. So many of them. All differently colored like infinite frequencies. They seem to fill all of nothing.
Oh! How I wished they could talk to me.
And suddenly the leader made a voice.
What? I was overjoyed.

'Why do you stop us?'
'Why? surely, you were attacking me', I replied.
'But we just wanted to be holded by you.'
'But why should I hold you?'
'Surely, you are a pen holder, are you not?'

So, it must be so

(View from a plane in the feververy month of 2019)

The landscape, parched, already rocky fed with waters from shrinking veins. A sea of clouds with towaering pillars of dust and vapour bringing to mind the formations of colorful columns of smoke witnessing the birth of a star from some space documentary or a spectre from Kubrick's Odyssey.

And the Sun, his majesty, ever prompting the Eart towards itself hangs aloft in its brimming ecstasy.

And the pen, a child of Earth and water, struggling and hence scribbling to capture the essence of this moment, bring back to life the meaning which it had been robbed off.

And the heart, coming to terms with sweet pain of love, the stingings of jelly fish, still cannot stop itself from imagining the far future where only the long gaze of chaotic science can presently reach and accept its wisdom - silence, thou are and silence, thou returnest.
For it fights backs and silences all silences and yearns to make the pen glide to write - it was, it is and it will for it must.

So, it is so.