A few ants struggled to carry a few grains of rice, their walk was haphazard, but I guess they knew what they were doing. A squirrel climbed up the neem tree, and looked cautiously at the event unfolding before him. Though still, he still had that electric movement stored in the legs. A cool breeze blew for just a moment, which offered some respite in the hot and humid day. Though I sat under that neem tree, it was still hot. That neem tree has a special history with me. We both are of the same age. I guess he was planted the day I was born. And now, he has blossomed in a big huge tree, which will go on to live for another 100 years. I witnessed his birth, and if possible, maybe he will witness my death. I just want to sit under that tree, listen to all the birds that come there and sit on his branch. It’s so peaceful there, so many sounds yet so calm. Every time I visit my home, I go there and hug him. I guess if he understands me or sees me through the corner of his secret eye. When sunlight comes filtering through his leaves, the camouflaged pattern dances on the floor, of the leaves and the branches. Ants, squirm through the trunks, in perfect lines, like we used to do back in our school days. Rain would come, and wash away all the settled up dust. I wish we both exchanged our places. I would become a tree, and the neem tree would become a human, and hug me whenever he would be back home. I would welcome the birds, the squirrels, the ants; and each year, we would celebrate our birthdays. In the breeze, I would sway, carelessly, the leaves would dance recklessly. New fruits would be borne, birds would feast, and I would be happy. Somewhere in another parallel universe, maybe I’m one.
There’s nothing that ain’t possible. Just in some another universe, of which we are ignorant. Everything is in this mind and brain. Together they form a deadly team, which can do whatever one pleases. The clouds, the rains, the birds, the ants, the sharks or the elephant; the trees, the soil, the mountain or the ocean; the land, the valleys, the books, the ink, the paper; I am everything and anything. I am the idea that crosses my mind, even if for an instant. I am that beautiful song, I am that beautiful rhyme, I am what I am. This mind knows no boundary, no limit. So does love. Try stopping love, and you will feel life slowly disappearing out of you. But this heart, this lung, this body; they all work very hard to keep you alive. It’s like a duel between love and all the body. You never know who is going to win, just anticipation that flexes its muscles. Maybe raise up the wagers, up the ante, change the situations, but it’s ultimately the decision of the mind. And who decides what the mind decides? The mind is divided in two, against its own self. It’s the experiences, the various images we have assembled, the influences of all the things we have conjured up in our subconscious mind. Suddenly they take up a living form; invisible, subtle yet powerful enough to decode the mystery and decide for you. That is what influences our mind to force the brain to make a decision.
I wish books should talk to me. I read them, but if I could talk to them, like friends, share stuff that starts to go on in my head after reading them, wouldn’t that be great? For they would never judge me. We would be discussing thoughts irrelevant and obnoxious, lively and pleasant, sweet and simple, philosophical and religious. Sharing the darkest secrets which nobody else would understand; because as humans we have this tendency to judge people, and form our own opinions. But books, I know are far intelligent than the most intelligent species which is hell bent on destroying this nature. If I would be sad, the books would sing a melody to me. When books would feel lonely, I would give them company, take them with me wherever I travel. Books already show me the untraveled world, but still for a change it would be pleasant. Books are above this mortal world. Only if I were a book, and had someone with me always to read me, to read my thoughts, to read me, without ever being saying a word. Books are amazing. Only them 26 letters, and they change everything. Alphabets alone might feel lonely, powerless, but just a stroke of pen, a stroke of thought, and boom… They suddenly acquire the power to change the course of the world. Yet they are so humble and polite. I wish the world was like this too.
The sun and the stars maybe would mock us, looking at us and smiling at the most foolish creation of God, the one who calls themselves the most intelligent and powerful. Lying high above, the sun, the moon, the stars; they may be unaware of the fact, but they have been the most influential of all in my life. In the times of lost hopes and dreams, I have always looked up to them. It gives me a sense of relief, of calmness, of serenity. It’s like an oasis of serenity lies above me, waiting for me to look up. Sometimes it’s great to unthink, to unask, to undo, to remain idle. Rest those eyes, rest that ever working mind and not think of anything but a giant white space. Maybe it is boring, but everything has a message in it. Even boredom is fantastic. Surround yourself with boredom, and you might start loving it one day. I wish I was the sun, the moon, the stars…and then I would feel awesome to provide inspiration and serenity to someone and anyone who looked up to me, to see the beauty in me. I would be there all the time, watching humans, some smiling, some crying, some loving, some in pain; and just wish they all looked up. The clouds would block them from me, but even then the air would blow them off. Air, my friend is what keeps the humans alive and this planet habitable. I know I would be far from earth, and maybe some other species from far different planet would be looking up to me, but I would prefer the Earth. Because I was a part of it, I was a part of you..