the meandering continues...


Tell me, I beg, if you might —where does the line between fiction and reality lie? 

Everything we live was conceived in a fanciful dream — 

everything that surrounds us a product of mind.

The mind creates, the mind imagines, the mind breathes life.

Why do we cower away from what rests behind our eyes? 
The world is our playground — our dreams building blocks, life the play

and oh, tell me, try, if you can; how many dreams can you dream in a day?

Why do we accept so easily, then, that which feels less than what could be?

Why do we compromise, time and time again, with what our mind's eye we truly see?

Fiction looks ahead, looks beyond. The imagination flies. 

Everything else looks back and describes what's been left behind. 

We all have the capacity to create, to mould, to shape.  

And if the thing wobbles, the rhyme not too great — who cares?

throw it out, recycle, refashion, recreate.

Stand up, make yourself known — think big.

The only limits are the ones you believe in. 


hear, here

    here, hear

       the music of the spheres. 


the sun,

    the light,

      beyond all earthly sight.

be gone,


       the melody of night;

the dance,

    the song,

      was made for you and I.

to  trust  the cycles, the seasons;  

everything tends towards regeneration, the path of least resistance 

no mistakes to make, no decisions to be had;

only an enjoyment, a blossoming

of the kingdom at hand. 

to dream a dream

to be, to be;

to float down that 

mysterious stream

of things unsaid,

things unseen.

here, the apples grow clean

straight from the tree,

the fish swim up the 

gorging ravines;

the beasts eat the grass,

the grass eats the bees,

the bees lay the eggs,

the eggs lay the seeds.

nothing shows what it means,

nothing means what it shows;

it all comes for the ride, 

for the rhyme, for the flow.

to dream a dream

to let go, to be shown; 

life is but a speck of dust that, into the wind,

someone else has long ago blown.


 from 28th Feb, 2018;


who and what are we?

it is incredible that after so many years of asking myself this question when I put my mind to it, it still haunts and shakes me so.

One can read the most comprehensive anthropological biological evolutionary treatise and still one will come no closer to an answer, 
"Man is but the result of a concoction of random biological and neurological processes shaped by millions of years of evolutionary forces." 

sure, man, whatever, you say — but who am I ? 

Whatever you might tell me, this 'I' is entirely unique, special, different from all history and all rational thought.

Why must everyone deny this so vehemently? Why must every one sell themselves so short?

Can't each and every one of you feel, in the flesh, how strange and immense it is — this feeling of being alive, right here, right now?


All being, the entirety of the cosmos, has arrived at your footstep. You are the story. Now.

Step up to what is yours. 


a man walks, the road deserted;

others have walked through here, he is certain —

but where he puts his feet, none have put their feet before. 

the path is lonesome, at times treacherous.

he does not know if he will ever get there —

but the kick in his feet that got him moving

never wanes, never lessens.

where did he come from? when did he start?

he knows not.

he walks that he walks —

that is all. 

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