the moving shadow

the shadow that is tied under the feet
is free to move with the blazing sun

Independence Day

Where did all the free birds fly to? The wind returned empty, and without any loose feathers that scatter. After years of leftover rains and moving sands, the ultramarine blue of the ocean is slowly swelling into turquoise lagoons and even more slowly through the aquamarine shallowness of the white sandy beaches. Free are these waters, free are the sands and even more the dancing palms that make the wind so happy passing gently through the low rise thatch cottages that once did randomly dot the isles.
Less we see them now and yet much less the wind can dance since there is hardly any palm to shelter the compounds around those cottages. We have become too independent, of each other and of ourselves, that neither the wind nor the blue of the sea is free anymore, let alone the vast starlit sky that is hardly visible anymore.
Random is the blink and not the eyes and free is the sight and not what we see. Our feet are free but not the road, our tongue is like a bird that has wings to fly but tied at the feet. And the ink flows freely from the pen but the hand that writes is guided by limited movements of a brain that is slave to another.
Independence is not a book nor a word too big or a letter at all. It is how we are to ourselves and still relate each other as a whole like how a falling rain has many tiny free falling drops that relate to each other to make the fall a complete whole.
If every individual is free then there is no need to plan, spend or fight to make a nation free. Independence is not about being free as an individual, it is the freedom of the individual minds as a whole. The bird that flies has wings but not the wind to carry hence together they fly.

taste of yellow

a lemon
grow
from green
to yellow
that taste
from bitter
to sour

.

Transparent it is, that empty glass on the table, and hollow within yet those many colourful reflections on the surface seems to fill an otherwise empty vastness. Filling slowly with a little happiness drop by drop each drop settling into a softer bed of smiling ripples that goes and goes until the reflection itself push her back. Slowly as the glass fills with happiness, emptiness spills out increasing the surrounding to yet more nothingness which is again reflected from the smooth transparent surface of the glass itself. Since the surrounding is filling with the spilling emptiness, from where is this happiness pouring into the glass, one might ask?

saturday

They are still there, and others too. If the week is a book, friday already flipped onto the other side. And one from them brought in as many news as one can say. None of them as interesting as the ones unheard and want to hear. Some in tension of the many works they have to do while still doing what they began earlier. Feeding to remain upright and asking about others who are not in sight is not unusual. The rest is normal and silent at a distance. That little alarm clock, if the battery is removed it stays silent, and then can be in an endless moment where time is still. Eyes non stop seeing things around while ears busy gathering the many that comes in. Tired feet swelling and yet need to stay a little longer, but for what? Sleep and silence sketch the bottom of the page. Not a time for a moving shadow or a music that plays of the songs they heard over and over again. The dress on the hanger and the water bottle slowly sink to be replaced by another. That rhythm again of a dual beat which keeps them as they imagine to be while slowly the tempo diminish to complete the score on the same sheet. So many taken out from where they were and held together in many other places where they never dreamt to be, like the cotton cover of the pillow, from that little seed and to far away places after so many journeys. Why still here and not where they want to be or around in groups telling so many others about what really happened. White as white and not any other but white. This saturday morning is for white, water and not wool but cotton.