THE HOMELESS MIND
Waiting for my turn
to be entertained
at the stationery,
I think inadvertently
of the pens
that I have changed ;
So many of them :
…fountain pens,
…roller pens
…ball point pens…
of varying makes,
designs
and price.
But like
…people,
places
and events,
which I have ventured
to rectify,
(maybe modify is better)
so much
and so many times
in so many styles –
slashing through the barriers
of age,
concepts
and theorems ;
cutting them to size,
discovering
and discarding
again…and again
in my ruthless search
for the true spirit
of man
…not mankind,
I notice
that all of them,
These pens that is,
have,
at one time or the other
either lost colour
or flair.
Sometimes they have ran out of ink
and then at others,
I have shuddered
on seeing
delicate nibs
and tips
being broken
as if
in pronouncement
of a death sentence.
And just as
I begin to revel
in the first hint
of a faint, subtle discovery
about the inadequacy
and futility
of search mechanisms,
the spell
yet another one,
is aborted by the man
across the counter.
I pay
for another pen
and walk out
into the street outside
into people,
towards places
and events
which I will never
ever
prune or fine tune.
*
Head bent,
I walk solemnly
in the constant agony
of scalding memories
of an elusive search.
as I collide
with a passer by,
he yells,
“Watch yourself”
and as I begin
to watch
my SELF ;
the agony dissolves,
the memories melt
and the search…
…matters no more…
*
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