Skip to main content

Jonathan Livingston Seagull is the world's edge


I remember when I picked Jonathan Livingston Seagull for the first time. It was long ago. A thin, square-sized book that it was, with every sentence Richard Bach had me to the skin. It was as if the time had frozen. Although I was too young, I could gather what I had bumped into. It wasn’t a book. It was the edge of the world. Upfront was the dark abyss of all your fears and apprehensions about the life. And somewhere far far ahead a faint light seemed to break in. Right then that day, I dashed into that tiny dot of light, not caring if my way ploughed through the deep void.

You see, there is no abyss ever. It is you at either side. Validating the abyss is denying your connection to what is beyond you. Don’t be afraid when they tell you that the abyss stares back at you. It does not know the way to trespass on its own. Right across it stand specks of hopes, dreams, joys pulsating through the spectrum of your being. Transgress a little and you’d see that all the ashes burdening you never mattered, except for those thin silvery shards and golden cusps we call moments of life. These moments glister whenever we spread out the cover of repose and quiet. And show the worth.

Transpose.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

100 words - Fall

Auburn mesh of mellowing leaves and a shade  Of mild sun in the sky, isn’t the world shying up for a long quiet?  Slow arrival of the dawn, its brisk departure into evenings, I embrace  The night with an intense warmth now.  Stars seem to photodegrade, their tiny dabs stitching up  The cloak of the mists around.  The earth has become solemn, the breeze tells.  I can sense the fading whispers of trees as a lull  Slowly forms upon the hills.  Few drifting clouds look for ironies and leave  Disappointed.  The music from the rivers has turned cold on them.
Post a Comment
Read more

I will remember

This day metro isn’t so crowded and I get a seat toward the end of the coach. Two stoppages later a family boards the train. They have a couple of luggage bags. I vacate the seat for them. The woman reluctantly contemplates taking the seat as I insist. Men around focus on the opportunity if she refuses. She sits. The three children, who all seem 3-6 years old, slowly sit over the berth constructed of the bags. All these three sit with their backs to each other, all facing opposite directions. The man stands near the steel bar about a foot from the children, observing them. I take another look at the family - the man’s shirt is torn from places. Sensing my own unease, I hastily look at his feet. The shoes are okay, not worn out. I strangely feel as if this discovery is a consolation to my own blessings. I shift my sight. The kids are well-dressed in the clothes the parents could afford them, the woman seems to be wearing a new saree. I feel relieved that I have overcome the bout of sym…
Post a Comment
Read more