On words and names

It is a damned thing with words that you must,
just must, use them
to reach the wordless...
and then that space in the path
where you are stuck, which they - the one's who have
reached the place of no-return -- say is the knot of words
and names. So much like the wall for a blindman,
till he finds his way,
these words, a wall that leads.
Only
the blind forgets the path,
forgets his search,
settles down
and marries the wall!

Looking back

That little girl,
she keeps crying.
I wish to console her.
But then, she is myself, I.
This business of Why is a difficult thing.
Ramana says, just dump everything. You may not shift through garbage.
But there is that stubborn thing, called stench.
It sticks.
I would be free.
To stop that crying,
that background wail. Till then,
when some tear-drop swells someplace inside,
I feel it roll and swell.
Helpless, watch it as it becomes a wave.

Jettisoning the self

Something waited to fall.
A tear drop swelling in readiness to fall.
But subsided from where it rose.
Something did fall off.
I felt it drop.
A scab of a self, among many.
The wound had healed.
Nothing remained.
Traceless, not even a scar.
Somethings are better dropped.