Gray clouds framed by darkening tree tops, birds are alarmed as light diminishes. The kitten my daughter had brought has again wandered off, I think his mother is near the tiny shopping complex here. Breeze touches the green leaves and then touches the water in small rain water puddles creating tiny ripples.
Some days are like mirages, when every thing appears false and illusionary, the life as it had progressed from being an infant to now and all that is to the life. Reading this book replete with History of East India company and Mughals, I am wondering if in a century humans will look back to all that is happening now as 'primitive'. Things formidable and most important gradually get buried in the dust storms of time and yet the present gives them such serious importance. The wars, stoning in the name of religion, hatred in personal relations, greed, taking others for a ride, all this what does it add up to? In the vast depth of Universe birthing galaxies and devouring stars, it is nothing. Where does this ego and all thing it manifests stand in the grand scheme of things? Then why it scatters us so that the creation appears meaningless, that words and acts turn sour and stale and moments of utter hopelessness crowd the heart.
Does not make any sense, the creation placed in this vastness is a contrast, our feeling of being adrift is a contrast to the calm chaos of cosmos. We are a contrast to the eternal presence of Universe, sprouting like mushrooms and vanishing with our seasons. Knowing well our frail bubble like existence, deep sorrows corrode souls. What a hilarious comedy the creator has brought about. Knowing well we know nothing or close our eyes against the light.
Even as the beauty of the world can at times seem meaningless, it serves as a reminder of the fact that there is much beyond our understanding for us to take hope in. There is a power that transcends that which corrupts, destroys, and enslaves.
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