Drift Wind, Drift, Through the Hypothetical Windows

... and the window opened suddenly, letting a strong gust of violent winds. Winds, they have a magical something attributed to them, just like the rains and the dews, the sun and the moon.

But this was not what the post was intended for. The post was intended for nothing. Nothing, like something, happens all the time. No overt musings this time, nor any more of vague after trails, foreground, background. Just words, plain and simple. Exuding whatever they have been meant to exude, but can things be so transparent and harsh? So direct and straight?

Certain Things:

Wheel: The mouse had been revolving inside.

Revolving

Evolving?

Who knows?

Learning to balance, perhaps.

Perhaps, to fight that old giddiness. Growing old for sure.

Samples

Treating treats to truths,

Lugubrious laments,

Ecstatic melodies, like musical notes flying in ephemeral space unable to be trapped. They transpire, they escape- escapist ecstasy. The words seem entwined.

Photo Frames: They forever haunt the corners of homes, to imbibe nostalghia or simply as reminders or as mementos, perhaps. Frames.

Digression

The sky at night is always a delight to watch, expanded, all space, empty (sometimes), sad (depending).

Is happiness a butterfly - elusive, flighty, too independent? Or am I being simply too drugged?

Everyone is effusively enchanted by this thing called life. The too much of it, the too less of it. The too chaotic part of it, the unsteady part of it, the uncertain part of it - A river flowing but one which has a changeable route. I have an aversion for strange pink, as if any one cares to know.

Do you want to know what the wind and the suddenly opened window brought in?

Leaves of grass, yellow dried flowers, a certain uncertain coolness, a whiff of a forgotten calamity that the wind had encountered on its way. Frisky odour of misadventure. Tattered pages of someone's old journal written in a beautiful hand. And it was not immediately followed by rains. The things the wind brought, remain the same.

And through a different window, you can see an -

... 'iron man'. With practically no roof over his head. He irons crumpled clothes, day in and day out. (Don't we all wish we could just crease off the very avoidable plications) And he just occupies a very insignificant space in the already insignificant world. Day in and day out, come wind or shine or absolute blasphemous heat and torrential rains. Ironing with the coals and the ancient equipment that requires no electricity. He is a forgotten being or almost. He can be a Saviour at the most needful hour. Like providing few matchsticks at dire times to forgetful beings. This is for him. The wind brings him nothing, definitely nothing too sentimental and of value. He simply leaves the corner to be under the tree when stuck with one of those dust currents.

The clothes have been hung on the rooftop ever since, fighting all the wind, storms, lightning.

Photo Source Keith Levit