Flight and Paintings

One single drop of rain begins to tremble. In the heart of the tallest mountain in a world, one single drop shivers.
This is where my story starts.
All things grow hot. And the point of beginning, for that heat, is the centre.What is the "centre"?
In a man, the centre is his "real" self. Soul? No. Souls lie in the realm of neither black nor white. Grey."Centre" is the truth. The "Centre" or the "self" never lies. Man's conscience arises because of this "centre". All emotions, arise as a direct consequence of what is felt in that "centre". When we construct delusion to live life by, we KNOW they are delusions. We hide. We pretend. We put up the facade for so long that it takes on the disguise of the "real self" for us. But it's not. And sometimes, people are shocked or stunned out of these delusions, because the "real self" , the one that had been subdued, takes charge again, sometimes with the help of a stimulant from the outside. And man begins to feel.
Perhaps, that is what "niyat" is. The "self". And that is, perhaps, why God, if there is one, judges a man on his "niyat", because that is where the truth lies. The "self", or the "niyat" that never lies.It is truth, or rather, the search for truth, that makes us talk to God. If, ofocourse, God exists.

I look for that "self" when I cannot feel. When I begin searching, I start to stumble onto narrow, hidden corridors, secret stairways, and dimly lighted passages in my being, that I hadn't walked on, much less noticed ever before. I fear that if I pass them, I will forget where they were. If i forget where they were, I would never be able to find out where they lead. That is why, perhaps, I start to paint. I map these blueprints of my existance, perhaps of my "self", onto a dry, scratchy canvas. The Gods of my "self" that take on the form of reds and blues and yellow. The colors, they pulsate. And as they throb, I feel.

Somebody asked me once, why I never give away my paintings. Is there any one in this world, who will be able to read these maps? They will judge my paintings for their aestheticism, and their craft, and their "themes", but they will never really understand them. In the end, we walk alone. No one man, can understand another. Each person, is in themselves, a universe whithin a universe. No bridges link two different galaxies. They each move in their own spheres, communicating, but never really connecting.

A wild bird. Singing Freedom. Freedom of thought and emotion. The only freedom in this world, that is a prerequisite for classification of man amidst the "human" species. Freedom that runs with blood and the fiery wings of the Phoenix. So really, more than nine-tenths of the "humans" on this earth, aren't really humans. Natural constants limit the freedom of thought and emotion that a man can possess. But this limit arises from the need to allow other men an equal amount of freedom. Man-made constants though, do the exact opposite. They take freedom away, so that the freedom of certain others can pile up into a shining, golden mass. Symbols of injustice.
Humans dehumanize humans.

Is this evolution?
Cannibalism, perhaps, would be a better choice.



Singing on a throbbing pulse,
The wind searches.
For a way to escape from its freedom.