The other side of window

Gleaming star

through the window, 

there comes a

reminder of past -

a past we never witnessed

and the past we all caress.  

The one we never witnessed

is ablaze and morbid.

Burning gases, explosions,

galactic events, black holes,

and things swirling around.

Galaxies forming, ageing,
traveling, merging, and dying. 

Life and death were in unity.

After million years, we evolved -

moved, conquered, and thought.

We thought, spoke, and debated -

ideas of life and death were created.

We shaped meanings for life -

study well, get job, and find a wife.

A universe was bred to give life a worth -

we embraced and abused our mother Earth.

We even made-up cycles of life and death-

soul, God, to not be afraid of holding our breath.

That star teases you

and tells you all this.

It says to you to accept

unity of life and death.

You reject it outright.

But you won't stop

glancing fondly over it.

You look at it

to see another past-

a past that's true

within realms of life

yet parochial since 

all it has is life.

This past, we all caress,

is wistful and recurring.

Big dreams, hard efforts,

buses, taxis, trains, flights 

to go somewhere you belong.

These journeys set you fleeting,

maturing, finishing, and repeating.

All journeys share a common thing: a window.

A window, beside you, made of glass

which you didn't open to listen to star.

You saw something else in that star -

your dreams, greed, and your scar.

You fancied success while touring in cars-

you abused trees, animals, and flowers.

O Lord! Now you want to travel galaxies-

find and start living with alien species.

Some of you might travel across space-

age slower, become star, and an advanced race.

Now you as a star

tease us.

You ask us 

to sit beside window.

We reject it ouright.

But we won't stop

glancing fondly over you.

We look at you,

to see a past-

a past that's true

in realms of spacetime

not parochial since

it's beyond life.

We were all stars,

morbid and ablaze.

We got life

and we traveled space.

We became stars

and we shall always remain.

Tangled

Aimlessly walking, treading pointlessly.

Randomised turns, roads returned.

Loops formed, garbled loops.

I know the junctions I met you.

We explored, walked Paris.

You laughed, jested along.

I agreed, disagreed along.

I know the junctions I kissed you.

What's special in those junctions?

Is life a story of junctions?

Do junctions tell you something?

(Junctions put label on relationships:

every anniversary is a milestone,

not every moment is a milestone).

Some moments die after taking birth,

some places are empty for you,

each memory is a star in stardust,

each junction is a point in space.

Can you create stardust from stars?

Can you create space from points?

You can't and you don't bother.

Roads were tangled and will remain.

We were tangled and will remain.

We created junctions when we met.

We cherish junctions till our death.


---
The view I have is that of strong memories which keep coming back to our mind and how our infinite sea of subjective experiences is nothing but a set of few junction points that we cherish again and again. Roads and lives are tangled but only junctions give them some meaning and direction. Junction sort of simplify the tangledness. 

Words and puzzles

Moon is the rock
in which I find her
talking to me
through an echo.

Clouds of oblivion,
come, stay, and go.

Dog barks at me
as if I am a ghost.

Driver honks at me
when I walk in middle
of this road.

A force is pulling me,
too mild, but I feel
that it can lift me off.

Moon, clouds, dog, driver, force
is a short story like those
pieces of puzzles.
They can never connect
unless you know their contexts.

Even if you know contexts,
they are mine not yours.

They can be yours if you trust me.
Find me, talk to me,
ignore dogs, ignore drivers.
Lift up, sail through clouds,
come to me, come to me.

--
A very linear way of explaining what I mean by each logo-centric word in a disjointed subjective context. Then, one can connect those subjective pieces to form a meaning. But even then, those meanings might not be understood completely due to subjective differences between reader and writer. The last attempt of writer is to summarise the story by making the reader as writer and writer as the beloved in his story.