Rendezvous with The Other

What's your story?

I don't have a story. If you look at my life, you'd find incidents, a variety of them. It is tough to find a common thread because there really isn't one. You could try making sense of them, arguing, justifying, despising. But does that make my story?

Does that mean it is a collection of stories?

Maybe. You'd rather ask the author!

Are you not the one writing them?

I live them, I don't take the trouble to conceive stories.

Do you conceive ideas then?

Ideas? They are funny things..migratory birds that perch on the branches of your little mind for a short while. If you make too much noise around them, they fly away. If you're a skilled hunter, you can shoot them down or cage them perhaps. You can also watch them nest on your offshoots and do nothing about it if you're selfless or generous or..incurious?

So how do you react when a bird perches on one of your offshoots?

I've done all of them voluntarily or involuntarily. Sometimes in the excitement of finding a blue-tailed rarity, I end up scaring it away. There are times when I think I've spotted a singular piece, but all I have is an elusive shadow. There are those prized moments when I manage to tame the thought and make peace with it.  And when I'm tired of keeping vigil, hunting and domesticating those mysterious creatures, I just let them be.

Won't they feel unwelcome if you don't pursue them?

I don't think they come to me to be pursued. They arrive out of instinct and they go for natural habitats, not concrete buildings constructed meticulously to the tiniest detail. So if you cut out all that wilderness in the recesses of your mind, they might just stop coming.

How wild is your sanctuary?

I've not touched the core yet. I'd like to believe that there are vast stretches of unexplored forests beyond where I've been. Like it's just the tip of an iceberg that I can see.

Where all have you been?

Where the sun is beaming and the grass is green

Where the moon is tender and the green is shy

Where the sun goes down and the moon draws nigh

And the leaves are phantoms tripping neath the sky