The lease of life

It had been dying. It lay in the same state for days and months and years and decades and centuries and millenniums and yugas and so on and so forth. And just when it was almost dead, and just when the last puff of the last breath was about to whiff out of its rugged lungs, there appeared the black crow from the colony of the white swans.
The crow's eyes twinkled, just like those of Dumbeldore's and it tapped its claws and fluttered its wings. Its beak quivered and sprinkled over some droplets of water that held life and more.
And so it arose slowly and in a state of disbelief, wiping from itself, the dust of the ages gone by, as the air slowly gurgled inside its lungs, and its eyelids fluttered again and its pupils adjusted to the mild sunlight.
The crow chuckled and cawed and celebrated and swooned and shrieked and then cleaned its bowels. Then it thundered in human voice!! From the four corners of the four worlds I bring you four listeners who lent you four droplets of life. Please you must, these listeners of tales. For if you don't , you perish yet again.

It trembled and shivered and breathed and sighed and thus it so began:

Long Long ago when the sun rose from the east and the ice existed on the polar caps, when a year had 52 weeks and a week had 7 days and a day had 24 hours and a hour had 60 minutes and a minute had 60 seconds and so on and so forth, there lived a guy who had been waiting for too long. And this was a dark night, when this all happened and so I four masters tell you this tale.

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Tonight was the night. Even Gods would not be permitted to get in his way, he resolved. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair and made contact with his soul. He felt his heart throb, his muscles tighten and his teeth clench. There was the scent of jasmine flowers in the air, pouring in through his nostrils, entering his whole self, and spreading into every bit of him. He shivered with a tinge of excitement. The blood was rushing in already. He closed his fists to control himself. The moon shone in half, letting the stars bloom. A dog howled in distance and another yelped. He reached the door, gasped for some air and knocked.

Something

He could barely smell anything. As he hummed songs to himself and kicked pebbles along the track, he carefully avoided the pieces of human excreta which lay littered all along , many a times resembling fine modern artistic mosaics. This was his ritual, his game, his way to engage himself as he returned from the middle school he attended. The classes made him drool but strict parents made him do good. As he walked along the tracks, he did not notice the naked children playing in the mud and sewage water, the colorful and ugly polythene bags strewn all around, the huts with tin metal roofs, men smoking cheap local tobacco which was chewing their lungs off or women sitting on the street, their hands in wet flour preparing meals over makeshift ovens full of smoke while their little children harassed them.
Mornings were a bit different. His right hand would be across his nose at that time . Children would be asleep then, ovens unlit and people would be seeking the heights of the railway tracks for cleaning their stomachs.

Nor could he. As he skid down the walkway with punctually lined black trash cans, thinking about the meal he would savor in the afternoon and remembering hushed conversations about girls with his friends he avoided the melee of cars and people. As he walked along, people middle aged and old clad in smart suits walked in some sort of an order, buildings 20 floors or more appeared and reappeared, children fat and plump, dressed colorfully, played in neat parks while they patted their healthy fat dogs, an occasional man and woman smoked a cigarette and women got their nails polished in spas as they read fashion magazines. He didn't notice anything.
Mornings were a bit different. There would be no cars and so it would be quiet, the parks would be empty and early morning commuters would be rushing towards subway stations.

Ah, childhood memories. Don't they linger around all the time. The plane jolted a bit driving him and him out of their slumber. They yawned and thought it appropriate to talk to each other. They soon found out that they had traded places. He now lived in He's place, helping it remain neat and was returning for a short visit. He also lived now in He's place and was trying to help the naked children and clean up the railway tracks.

Both had been trying to seek Something.

Wisdom, Philosophy and the water drop travelling across oceans

The white, he noticed the white. It saddened him a bit, and he engaged into efforts to cover it up, hide it beneath the black. Started trying to solace himself. Doesn't white mean grey too. Isn't grey good. Hasn't the transition not been fruitless.
He looked at the blacks full of gaiety and laughter. A smirk swept across his self. The ones who are yet to see, yet to learn, yet to fall and yet to grey, or may be white. This made him happy, a wee bit happy.
The white returned soon or perhaps it was always there. It reminded him of the ticking sand Tee. He had to find something, someone.
He noticed a place all white, as pure as silver, untainted silver. The white, bright as silver but with no expression. Sunk into itself, withdrawn and withered. This white was different than his own, it was all white, all pure and it had no black to look upto. This made him happy even a bit content.
He yawned and started brushing his white.
As he turned the tap off a water droplet sparkled and smiled. Perhaps it smirked and then flushed itself down the drain.

The Fictitious Sadhu

Dwelling nowhere is an art. Let your thoughts ramble on, let them get disorganized, stop trying to chain in your entropy and you are there. Where, you might ask. Nowhere I mean. Its so pleasurable to be here. Come, join me, give it a try. If there is a heaven in any patch of the universe, its right there in nowhere.
Now listen, listen carefully. Some idiots might come and interupt your pleasure. They might ask you to get out of your slumber. May be one of them is your boss, may be its the nerd who works harder than you, may be its your father who wants you to work. Ignore all of them. Because they don't understand you. They can't understand you. They are crippled. They don't have that sensory organ which can be receptive to the pleasures of nowhere, which can rejoice the wonderments of nowhere, which can bite the forbidden fruit with pride.
Oh dear!!Oh dear, Lust is such a sensation. Lust has passion, vigor, energy and madness. Its all there. Nowhere has it all. Come taste lust. Forget love. Love is for losers, those who can't stand the heat of lust, those who are too fragile, too bloody impotent. Don't be afraid of it, admire it, you only need food and thoughts, pleasure can be derived from the copulation of these two. Who decides the good or bad. You and you alone. Come, listen to this Sadhu, come to nowhere. Come..Come..take that pill and come..take that shot and come..come..and come..