Mortal

There’s something I find deeply satisfying about acknowledging mortality.

The delicious color red of the salty water rushing through my arteries is beautiful.

Those small undefinable moments… Lying on the ultrasound bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the doctor say, “Pancreas – Okay. Gallbladder – Okay. Liver–“, I’d felt so human. Even through my nervousness I smiled and my mind bicycled back to forgotten classrooms and voices teaching us of organs, and the vivid diagrams in our textbooks.

I’m human!

How silly. How true. How lovely.

When a needle draws blood from my veins, that looking away and clutching my sister’s hand tightly, then meekly stealing a glance at the syringe, it’s beautiful.

 

I’m smaller than a speck in eternity’s vortex.

I’m mortal, and it’s beautiful.

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At peace

“You beautiful, beautiful rain. Thanks for letting me breathe under your fluffy wings, and get drenched in your soul-soothing showers.

I haven’t felt this happy, and liberated since the day I gave myself a haircut.”

— My Facebook status yesterday.

I swear, I cannot put into words what an incredible day it was yesterday. It was an hour from sunset, sis and I, we were sitting on our terrace and a very light rain started pouring, we didn’t move. We high-fived each other, laughed, sat in silence feeling the raindrops caress our soul, and smiled toward the sky.

Peace at its utmost.

It started pelting harder and sis went to stand by the terrace door, sheltered from the intensifying rain. Can’t blame her, anything too cold results in throat pain.

I stayed under the open sky, the sun was about to set somewhere behind the clouds. The clouds gazed back, swirling in and out of innumerous recognizable shapes. I kept pointing and yelling over the downpour what I saw – a little princess riding a horse, a mid-leap Cocker Spaniel, a stingray and a school of fishes, a rodeo, and so on.

I hummed to my own tune, swayed, danced, urged my sister to step out and dance with me, held out my arms to the wind – embraced it in my mind. It was all like something from a lovely dream, like being in a poem someone’s writing.

It felt as if all my sorrows had been washed away. For some reason these four words kept repeating themselves in my head like a whisper – “The moment is now.” The moment for what, I know not. Maybe to live in the moment. But what I do know is that I am now at peace.

PRIYASHA-PANGARI-PHOTOGRAPHY-allthingszeudon.wordpress.com

Me. Posing. For sis.

I hope everyone’s been having a wonderful week as well!

Much love,

Pratty

Gaia

The Mother wails ,
The Mother flails.
The world in her cloudy azure womb;
Stubbornly encasing itself in doom.
It burns in her, making her weep,
The Mother, the dear Mother, maddened in grief.
None would quench these fires, tears none that rain,
The Mother’s helplessness shall be her sung-of shame.
Enraged she whips! Fiery bolting whips;
Her wrath a fury, an unending storm that grips.
The sun shines, giving the Mother warmth to calm,
She repents, she regrets, her child she tried to harm.
One so beautiful, a child she bore,
One like which she’ll birth nevermore.
A child she loved, a child she cared and always provided for.
It grew, she taught it living, but it betrayed her all the same
For it grew fonder of material, feeding its unquenchable hunger for name.
It digs her like maggots through rotten flesh,
Her signs, her warnings, still hanging about, fresh.
She created waterfalls for it to play in,
Seas and oceans to sail through, sails swaying.
But it’s swatting them away,
Melting and flooding the way.
The way that taught it surviving,
Now it poisons all, how conniving.
Some peek at stars and proudly proclaim,
The Mother will die, and the child’s to blame.
“The Mother will die, and she will die soon,
Be it a million years from now, or a turn of moon.”

_________________

Gaia the mother and personification of Earth.

— Praty

Silhouette-y

They say there’s something about sunset. Depends on the person’s perspective as to whether they find it depressing, peaceful, or a bringer of pure melancholy.

I say there’s something silhouette-y about the ambience of dusk. I’d go into finer details of philosophy, but nah. Sometimes it’s better to enjoy something just how it appears. Floating on the surface than scuba diving into it and missing a spectacular moment above.

Sonset1 final

 

Oh, and wow. This is my 50th post. 😀

— Praty

Awestruck in Paris

Midst the morning hour Paris traffic rush

An easel propped in front with paint tubes, here I sit

 

Rabbit hair paintbrush held loosely, dabbled in paint

Absorbing centuries of eminent beauty, here I sit

 

In a city of art, culture, poetry, and haste

With a loosely held paintbrush, here I sit

 

A blank canvas mocks my ability, my state of awestruck

Being overlooked by passersby, here I sit

 

A child stares at my set up in wonder

While across the busy street cafe, static, here I sit

 

Overwhelmed by its artistic richness

In this foreign land, dumbfounded, here I sit

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Fifth poem for NaPoWriMo. 25 more to go. Fingers crossed.

– Pratty