A dancer unwinds herself upon the stage. Something comes alive in that empty space – some fervent energy that vibrates with each move of the dancer. There is no remarkable audience watching her weave this art, save the prying eyes of Time. But it doesn’t matter to her. She doesn’t dance for anyone save for the desire to dance.

As grace and passion unite, the linearity of time fractures until every small moment is animated with a sense of permanence. Time is either viscous as honey or frozen as ice.

In a while, the sensational movements of her body will be silenced as the stage blacks out for her. It’ll be time to go. The emptiness will return to that very sacred space she had held electrified just moments ago. And in a minute yet, a new dancer will ascend to seize what were her spotlights. And the stage, that beloved stage, will eagerly forget her like her divine dance was immaterial.

She knows that. But it doesn’t disturb her. It doesn’t matter to her that she is the Forgotten Dancer. Because she doesn’t dance for the watching eyes or waiting time. She dances for the sake of dancing. To create a ripple in every second and to feel eternity and impermanence entwine. She dances because she is mesmerized by the flow of the movements cascading one after the other, unthought of, yet in deliberate harmony

And at that moment, she isn’t just another Forgotten Dancer, but she is an impression- fleeting, yet undeniably real.


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There is an invisible orb of stories and a wisp of reminiscent legends that wrap the Earth. A sphere made of the transparent phantoms of dust. It is a place where time had never lived, and where beauty – in its most affectionate and vilest form had sprouted.

The orb is the Earth’s memory that still dances with life and the vividness of dreams, even a million years after the characters and lands of those memories had returned to dust. But it’s them that the Earth caresses in her heart – those men, whose dust our plain lives walk on – who have forever written their stories on a universe that could never be touched by fleeting things such as time and laymen.

And that’s why, in the silent whisper of the night, when the Earth weeps in the wake of their poignant memories, I ask her of those people and their lives. I would sit by the crashing ocean, listening to her ceaselessly mourn those long-lost stories, that had been from a time when humans had talked to the ocean’s spirit. I would sit by, and listen to the tales being told in a language that couldn’t be distinguished by those who didn’t discern the bubbling life in the calmness of nature. And I would talk to the wind and stars and particles of sand – for they are ancient lives, who bear in their long memories, infinite stories of a time so surreal with human greatness.

Once, the maroon-hued late evening trees whisper to me the tales that the old forest had recounted to her when she was young. In gushing tones rushing forth her black ruby branches, she would narrate to me of how the great king of the yonder days had sacrificed his own body and flesh to feed the flames of light that dispelled darkness. Stories of men who fell to the Earth selflessly, to save their land from the evil that festered through its veins. Of women who, scorning, burned their lives to protect with their embers, a sacred truth. Of children yet innocent of anything but golden fantasies about a vast multi-hued world, leaving this Earth before their life began, so as to give life to men unknown. And the dark shrubberies would nod in the wind that moved with those golden souls that were lost in the wilderness of history.

And then, I seek out to the deep silence that echoes from within the dunes and dust of deserts. A great legend moves within its time-woven folds. There in the red infinite, I listen as the sun and the Earth tell each other the stories of love, about the beautiful princess who etched out her life on the shattered stone of miseries and held together her soul and morale in the heart of the storm. The scattered sand would bring back its song about the wise seers who spun out the elusive silver mysteries of Earth from their silent tongues. Of wanderers who conquered love and land to find life.

Each night, the passing vestiges of darkness soak the sky with serenades of life, love, beauty and the divinity of sorrow that had walked the Earth in the form of people ancient. And I grew up listening to those stories of the Earth, still heard in the language of those who listen. And day by day, I grew with the old, undying souls – with the moonbeams and bluebell breezes, the chimes of the brook and the deep musical silence from the Earth’s heart. And the epic of their lives inspired my breath.

So one day, when my breath ceases, I would leave behind a life that drenched the Earth once again in forgotten human conquests, and illumines in its depart, a legacy of love, change and humanity. And my soul would leave this mortal world, to return to the Earth’s arm, to forever live with my long lost heroes in the eternal sphere of memory.

Because, all else, who live for the mediocrity of the trifles of everyday life must perish after a hundred years, with their memories swallowed by the soil, and forgotten forevermore.


And in death, I wish to leave behind my life.


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Imagine, when a silver vein of lightning rips through the pink sheets of sky to pierce the deep indigo ocean in the end of the world. Scintillae of golden flecks sparkle up from the embers of the ocean. Thunder rolls across the bloody sky with its white scar. Two powerful Gods are speaking to Each other. Two lovers cursed to be separated until eternity, transgress their oaths and fall into the temptations of touching each other only once more. The color of love escapes into the twilight and their powerful union brightens the sky, though only for a moment.

But then the Gods speak to each other once more. Thunder growls. The sparkling hand of lighting withdraws. A foreboding tension sweats into the air, making it humid, and poesy pours into the breeze. In a beautiful moment, the sanctity of unspoken love had been scuttled as the young lovers broke free of their iron chains. There was something fascinatingly beautiful and wicked about the moment’s spasm of unfettered love. But the Gods forbade it.

Yonder from the horizon, the ocean begins to crash agitatedly, serenading its woes and yearning. Its hymns dissolve into the infinite sky, and the sky begins to weep miserably, gifting its musical tears to the sea’s songs. Their pain – the hymn and rhythm- collide in mid-air and intertwine, giving birth to a million little children of love that ache to fill the chasm between their parents.

The pain and sorrow of the separated lovers, destined to a parallel love, to walk with each other untill infinity and never to meet once, darkens the Earth. And in the dusky hours of rain, when the wind whistles the melancholy serenade of their yearning, all things grow deep and sad, blessed with the quaint touch of a divine love. An aching enfolds the Earth in its arms.

But the Gods – tormented by their young children’s misery, themselves- shriek out their disapproval. Because sometimes, a love so passionately uncouth ruins life. For what might happen if the sky falls to the ocean and the ocean weaved itself into the sky?


To be continued…

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