Flying high

He felt so proud
Soaring above everyone else
He looked back down at me
He felt safe up there

I fed some more cord
He soared a bit more
He went with the wind
With the wind he swayed

The colours adorning him loud
So he could be seen far and wide
He strayed as far away
As the cord in my hand allowed

I watched amazed
At the heights that he can soar to
At how he swam the skies
How with the wind he played

I was standing aground
He looked so high
That was when I saw a sight
That woke me up today

While the kite in my hand
Soared imagined heights
A bird passed it by
Dressed in soft, pastel shades

I dropped my precious cord
I did learn something new
Why when you can flap your wings
Why tie yourself with cords

Spread them out and fly away. That is what real flight is.

How to make the world a better place?

Just introduce to every human, ultimate joy, by showing him the results of his productivity. Not grades. Not monetary benefits. But actual results. Show him the houses where the tiles polished by the machine he built are laid, show him the people who enjoy the food that he helped grow and produce. And that, my good people, will make every man better, happier and healthier.

What's with your language

Vowels go into the dustbin. Spellings get kicked out the back door
You play with the capslock button like you did with the neighbour's door bell
The question mark gets your concern. You don't want it to be lonely
So you put a dozen of them together.
To make it more jolly add a couple of exclamations. Weave a string or a garland with them
Invent abbreviations as you go. Or maybe create expansions for meaningless strings of consonants.
Originality? Or a mask to cover the lack of it.
Laziness? Then why write at all!

Language was invented to communicate, not to flabbergast people and leave them frustrated enough to write out rants like these.

Which is the greater crime?

Knowing that you know and can do but still not doing a thing?

or

Not knowing that you can't and still being sure of yourself.

I see both kind of people around me. Getting irked.

The full cycle

Snake-like, the cycle wheel goes while crushing leaves on the tarred road and leaves you wondering what is more wonderful - foliage that is just sprouting this spring or the memories of the last year that are strewn on pathways. You look up and the future calls with translucent green - fragile and yet sturdy and strong enough to last the summer and the winter after. You look down and you see orange, brown and red of last year's follies and foibles, fun and frolic - the past. Your cycle wheel crushes every crumpled reminder that goes "scrunch" on the road and that scrunch travels right up to your head through the rubber and metal. Then another attack of wind, forces down more leaves that shower down on you, covering you with orange, brown and red again. You try to weave past every one that threatens to attach itself to you, but they still do. The images of them falling down straight in individual spirals in a slow-motion-shot force your lips to turn up and acknowledge the sight. The permanence of this process of change that makes the whole earth be born again, taking you with it, taking something away and giving you something in return, keeps you in awe of perfection embedded in that which can never be perfect, permanence that is so ephemeral, meaning etched into meaninglessness and past replayed and recorded in that which is yet to come. The full cycle.