Sunday, January 16, 2011

Drifting Pithiness

The only warm hearth we can always return to is our childhood memories

At every opportunity to not know, I shamelessly choose to know.

The patient sheet of paper - never asking me to shut up.

If only she could love me and not the image of me I wanted her to once love.

On the pavement, my body feels and holds the rush of every vehicle and in that incessant throb, a deep calm and quietening...

Such a pitiful heart which mistakes attention for love

How different is day from night!? My life is not of my plot; my dreams are not of my design.


2 comments:

  1. "If only she could love me and not the image of me I wanted her to once love." - don't you think at each point its a different image- the "you" that you talk about now, is just another image- the real you also changes from time to time- at each time you take a different snapshot- its a different picture.

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  2. Dear D,
    Exactly... that is the irony intended to be brought out in that line. :-)

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