This journey of words

I feel a storm of words brewing... Mostly, the torrents are echoed inside and out in symphony, by the rush of rainwater drenching the earth outside my bedroom window, and the surge of emotions making their way through my being. I am, once again, on the threshold between worlds. The free spiritedness can be so ambiguous... in some ways it tends to whirl one in a mix of creative energy and other times it tends toward a tiresome rant in rhetoric. Mundane tasks may seem enchanting, while deeply enthused moments can be completely forsaken, until its too late to redeem.

But the current surge of thoughts is quite a powerful one. It begs my attention now, forcing me to do more than engage in analysis and thought, but urging me to be more than a spectator. Allay the fears, and ride the wave of destiny, remembering what if feels like to delight in the rollercoaster with real glee. Before the days of over-thinking things. Before the hurts and pains and reactivenesses of ships wrecked and long delivered to the ocean floor. Before the trees and huts that held fresh dreams, now burnt to cinders. Before the fairytales went sour. Real glee is the realisation that all those moments of wistful memory and unfathomable stumbling along the path to finding meaning, make up the cobble road to a place far greater than the imagination could conjure. A place where free spirits roam hand in hand with their faces to the sunshine; where roads lead to endless possibilities and where words like 'suffering' arent put aside to character development by a world choosing the desensitised route.

Too many words still echo. This is why, todays post cannot be quenched by a simple poem. It needs open spaces in which to rush out, go forth and beyond in its quest to relieve me of this load. Words are things. They can lay a heavy burden needing to be removed, or be like a new child waiting to be laborously borne. Either way, the implication is release from the source. I am not that source. I am just an instrument, through which these words must be played; flute like. Inspiration is Divine, as Rumi always says. The music is strained, though. And I wonder if the extended path into India will help to soften the grip that the chords have on my inner being, enough for it to find its way out.

Durban, beautiful water-coloury Durban. My farewell begins here. Until my return, that is. Because the ties that bind are in too many life-like colours to be just a figment of my travel weary imagination. Old wounds bled internally; then dried to a pathetic scab or two. Its these fresh cuts that slice through to the core of my being. They need to be reduced to gleaming tattoos, removed, and left at the foot of Taj Mahal. Gory details must seem that much more illustrious in contrast to shrines of eternal love. Only time will tell.