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The unwinding spring of life!



Life goes on, before you realize, it is well past you, like the bus you could not catch while waiting in the bus stop you stood all your life. It’s the sheer intensity and the velocity of the things that I seem to miss. It is like a movie with so much squeezed into every frame that it becomes infinitely superior to and lies there while the audience only collect those bits that are in their reach. Somehow, I feel left out of the circle of preoccupation. I stand transfixed at the propensity of life’s amazing ability to float around, in air; in every heaved sigh, in every hair stalk I brush with my hand, in every electron that oscillated perpetually. While I stand there, the activity around me seems to push itself ahead with the preset momentum, like a clock that unwinds in its spring.

The spring of my life unwinds in interminable intervals, I control the unwinding energy by pausing it for while here and there. Perhaps it is the heat, or the friction , for every time I pause the spring’s unwinding, I am left vacant, as if nothing matters now. As if the thoughts are so consumed with the attention that they try to put it all into a perspective, cajole me, just as a child sitting alone is consoled by its mother, that there are things beyond his reasoning. Albeit, for now, he can relax in his mother’s embrace.

And when the spring begins its unwinding again, it is fast, as if it had been in motion all the way, as if it all never happened. And, life goes on, till another moment, where I hold on to the dear spring, dear life and look around in awe at the beauty that I had left unfinished. I am a part of this emerging beauty, and I had left it all without noticing, now I pause and fill it all up with my gaze, here a flower, there a cork floating on water. Now I am there, a moment here, and I am lost again in the unwinding spring of life.

How could, I wonder, how could some one just ignore this process and bemoan that his identity is all supreme. The stream of life, the fine sense of it and the naked beauty of it all. So much that shapes and situates in the capsule of time, so much that passes for nothingness, how could one not realize.

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