Rebirth

In mystic dreams are fulfillments of pleasure and desire, much like the suspended state often one is in after an accomplishment of sorts; with one’s breath that can blow away the demons and bad vibes. Good intentions sought after and the minute details of glorious victory of the soul, these are what I’ve been feeling for the past couple of months.

I am re-invigorated: There, beyond is the elusive dream, the touch of Midas finally in the works, and the eternal bliss of the soul reflected on my mind like a poem reminiscent of Tagore of yore, the simplicity of Thoreau’s deeds, and the complicated machinations and electricity (pun intended) of Tesla’s obsessed mind. Oh, the relief of finally getting free from the shackles of an illusion, an illusion that again almost buried me to the ground.

Free. Free from all the despair, and the longing for a truer life is within reach. I am so blessed to be born, raised and grew up under the tutelage of a man who took the road less travelled by. It took him to an adventurous journey, and it took me there, too. I look therefore to this day, and the days ahead. Oh, it will be Christmas again. And though they say it is the season only children are the ones happy for, I disagree, for the crisp air and the sounds that remind the older guys like me about their own youth are enough reasons for having a piece of this happiness, too.

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted (Bible).

And yes, as Frost once wrote, “ I shall be telling this with a sigh/Somewhere ages and ages hence /Two roads diverged in a wood, and I/I took the one less traveled by/And that has made all the difference.”