A walk in the mountains



The roads I have walked on; 24th December 2017

I believe nature has a grand door like death. You have to knock at it to start a conversation. So when you see men and women standing at dangerous edges, looking into the vast space with a thoughtfulness in their eyes, I reckon they are invited for supper by the all-seeing nature.

It must be an honor. But as a matter of fact, you don’t need to stand at “dangerous edges” to start a conversation. You might as well be walking past a garbage bin and may happen to see a tree with a color that seems rare and special and all sorts of magical and then, right then you are having what I have already called a ‘conversation’.

But it is not a conversation. It is foolish to see it merely so. It is a semiotic system rather obscure I would say. The more you are involved, the more you understand it.

On December 24 2017, I had a profound talk and I did not even need to open Tolkein or Keats–people who were much more benevolent in this discourse than I ever will be (Yes I was carrying the big mammoth Lord of the Rings on trekking!). Well, the profound talk began with a lot of cheerful cursing (in my third person monologue). You see, I am not really athletic and although I enjoy trekking, I’ve barely have had much past experience with it. But to walk alone was something brave I was doing. The ground fell miles and miles below beyond my right foot and silence was no longer a phantom as he is in the town.

It was a cloudy day and the outer anatomy of the mountain began to trace like a map in my mind. What clothes it had on? Winter. The cold brown dust and gnarling trees shooting out of the mountain like its nails, and still ever so glorious? It was strange to me. I pondered the meaning of beauty and what was my ideal for it. But it did not matter. Thoughts evaporated from my head, up beyond my woolen cap and were eaten by the sky that looked unreal. I guess, nature serves mind in its invitation. It also occurred to me that the mountains–over which I walked on and the ones in front or adjacent to it–were wrapped in ribbons, as if knitted in a sweater. On plains, the only way you reach the 4th floor of the building is by the mechanism of stairs installed inside the building itself. But isn’t it absolutely ridiculous that you may climb the sand hill beside a the mountain house and all of a sudden you are above someone’s terrace. And I kept thinking about ribbons. How the mountain lets you in. Upon it are fossils and scars of battles unknown. How long will it stand after I will die?

These are the questions, I’m sure, that you can easily pick up from a geography book but the walk, I think (in the spirit of David Thoreau) it is also about the science of interiority. What valleys run past your lungs and what river sings in your heart. So I think that the mountain is a ritual. To me it is a wall that you put your ear to, a wall thick as a world, and deep inside there is nothing but the beating heart that is life.  When you put your ear to it, your life begins to mimic it.

When I walked, I walked past the lumps in the dusty ribbon, the dangerous launch of a tongue that rolled out in a sheer power of the will of the landscape. Good small passersby who were small in an ironic comparison to the vast civilization of nature. And everything was so far but close. A man who clipped at trees for firewood, three roads below mine, was like a neighbor with a common wall. The waterfall near the dam roared at me from miles away, its icy blue like a pebble in the sand. Apart from occasional odor of watery caves and moss, there was no smell in the air at all. The cold bit the tip of my nose whenever I tried to look for it. I wanted to sit but was excited about what I may find next. Did I ever wanted to turn back?

As a matter of fact I did. The mountain behind was very primordial and my mind’s home for no man but Yetis. It was all buttered up in snow and glowed mysteriously in cloudy sunlight (sorry for unnecessary metaphorical suspense in the beginning there but that’s how I blog). It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. But sad to me (not in the poetic rumor that all beautiful things must be sad)  was the idea that I kept thinking this scene is like a drawing room scenery or an instagram picture,that I cannot translate  right there and then. Like my walk near the summer river and mild flower beds in June 2017, I  suddenly remembered having the exact same thoughts then too. A friend also echoed them without my participation. What weird urge to find something so magnificent and to somehow locate it in trivial matter of life? Yet I made peace with the urge. I tell you, you should too. You should forgive your friends who take too many pictures as you must forgive a friend who must decide to paint the land carried away by a similar urge. Thanks to my Visual Arts paper last semester, I can understand this urge better. Velasquez’s Las Meninas, for one, gave me the cleverest of all examples. Las Meninas had been a mystery to scholars for a long time. It is a painting interrupted. The painting captures the exact moment when animation of the maids, the clowns, the princess and a painting painter is brought to a sudden halt when the royal couple walks into the room. There is a mechanism to see them in this act too. Behind the subjects is a mirror which faintly captures King and Queen in this act of interruption. But wait a second, does it now? Most scholars disagree. The reflection in the mirror is the reflection of painter’s ongoing painting and NOT the royal couple. So my point is? My point (which I am borrowing from people who do long studies of paintings) is that truth is stranger than fiction. The royal couple are much more brilliant than a painter can ever paint (a painting is a mirror you see, so Velasquez is literally indicating to that) as is seen through the effect on the faces of the subjects interrupted.

Painting by Diego Velázquez, 1656

My point being? When I walk the mountains and take them away as a memory, I wish, I wish, It remained as glorious as it was when I saw it. It is a Shakespearean effort to capture the now-time.

This urge is the basis of ‘conversation’. The idea that you want to carry it in your hearts in its true form. But I think we remain what we are, foreigners. However, some people are less foreigners than us. Those who live and breathe the mountains and call it their home. Where villages have their own problems and celebrations and mountains merely happen to drop in the beverage they call life. The same is true for where you live. No wonder I love my city (in a landscape and people way) even when people escape to mountains and the problems never disappear.

My 24th December walk was profound. I encountered dangerous edges, a phantom mountain goat, hotel-running smart lady with  apple red cheeks, nice people from my own city, crunch of my own foot and the voice in my own heart. I think it is very important to hear this voice as it happens to melt into other voices and then you can’t tell which one is yours. Right now it is in the act of writing for me, but at other times it is in humming, cooking, jogging and even simply walking (not-that-simple-actually) upon the never-ending ribbons of the mountains.




Round off

When you will touch the face of my coffee cup,

You will find it as hot as my eyelids

Steaming with the coal-churning factory.


I push my left eye back into her cave

And the workmen brim up with coal

Grinning nihilistically, I savour the numb

Off upon the afternoon breeze;

It is like falling off the wagon in a noonish nap.


My muscles lisp.

I crunch upon the devil’s shoe like an autumn leaf

And I free horses in the wild, wild corporate-shunned woods.


These factories that are precise spaces;

Poets from different ages break upon its machinery

Till it will turn blue holding out breath,

Like a fish in a noodle bowl, leaps

—in a sound midnight dream.


Here this was my attempt,

Some may choose to call it inactivity or debt.

But the coals slide off the eye-cliff until dayfall,

And then

classroom-envy will cease hold.


I refrigerate my coffee and wait for night to chirrup.



Image result

There isn’t a letter on my keyboard

That will have you

Smarten up your collars, sleep with a chord of food

And set you off to your

Island of mercy.


I know

There glasses full of chuckling ice,

A home-made monster,

To whom your blankets

Reproach and yet still shiver

With all the cold,


They said, build up some walls

But what of those

Towering inside,

Lying frigid

Against the storm that is your kin

You fall, all of all

Your scratching nails will

One day give in.


Stand on one leg from now on,

Islands are no places for hot-blooded men

We flux, We cry

But, just have a spirit to begin.


Photo credits:

If you are looking for a sign, this is it.

A month back, I organized an anti-suicide contest and here are few of the jewels I got.

If you are feeling low or suicidal, please take time to read these pieces, else, please share them. You might be unknowingly, saving many lives.

user img

When you feel like that

What brought you here?
Trapped by troubles, trapped by fears
And no clear way ahead
Today, just for today, the answer doesn’t matter
You don’t have to have any answers
Take out your medicine blanket
and wrap yourself in it
Remember how you made it with love
Because you knew hard times were coming
If you want to talk, then talk
If you want to cry, then cry
If you want neither then just let yourself lie
Imagine that you are flotsam left by the tide
And just breathe… flow in and out like the sea
Today, just for today, all you have to do is be
I’m not promising it will be easy
But that you can make a little space with your hands
You can dig down into the sand
You can look up at the sky
And let those thoughts drift by
Even the terrible ones
I’m not asking you to be strong
In fact the opposite
Just relax and breathe

Author notes

And if you do feel that way please find the number of your local crisis line and give them a call.

© Laura, All rights reserved.

Psalm of Solitude

10 Most Most Inspirational Groups on Deviantart

Talking is one
of the hardest
things to do.

So is listening.

Have you ever
felt like it’s stacked
against you?

Like it doesn’t matter?

Like no one cares?

I know I have.

Nothing worse
than someone
telling you
they have all the

That isn’t true.

Bottling things up
may work for a
but we all  get tired.

Eventually it has to
come out.


It will.

Some way.
Some how.

No one is
going to like it.


When it does
come out
it might not be
what anyone

Least of all yourself.

It takes a lot of
to hold it all in
and for so long.

Who has that kind of strength?
Looks like you do.

I find it hard to release.
I find it hard to trust.

Personally,  I like a
little solitude
every once in a while.

I think it’s therapeutic.
Almost refreshing.
It is certainly the most
honest part of life.

I don’t know you
well enough
to be persistent
that persisting
always welcomed


I do know
that something
is just not

I do know
it isn’t right for
someone else
to know
that something
is bothering
someone else


when they have
been in similar




It’s worse
to do nothing.

To feel like
you have been

To know
that someone
else is in pain.

To allow it.

To act as if that
is normal.

I know it isn’t.

I can’t do that.

It’s not right.

I respect your decision.

Whatever that may be.

Things like these take time.
They are overwhelming.


you are not alone.

I’m right here.


Author notes

No matter what problems you are dealing with, we want to help you find a reason to keep living. By calling 1-800-273-TALK (8255) you’ll be connected to a skilled, trained counselor at a crisis center in your area, anytime 24/7.

© Jose J Hernandez

Saving a life in lowercase

that is all it is

what words can accomplish
what no words can?

so I ask you
before you do what many have
for all the wrong reasons
to look up –
what is above you?

maybe it is sun
maybe you feel the sunlight
soft and warm
lighting your skin
invisible but
oh so tangible

maybe it is rain
wet cold drops
that spin the world
those sky-tears
came all the way
from the ocean
just to fall on you
cool you off
drink you in

maybe it is snow
maybe a white storm
hovers above you
each snowflake
unique as you and me
pretty and delicate
but tough enough
and brave enough
to let itself fall
to be part of something
bigger and better

maybe it is stars
maybe your eyes
catch the light
of a thousand
twinkling galaxies
shooting across the sky
or watching silently
observing rooting
wishing hoping

whatever you see
ask yourself the smallest question:
would you miss it if you were gone?
the answer is not important
it is the fact that it exists
and so do you

Author notes

Written for the contest “Save A Life As You Write”.

© Abigail Roade, All rights reserved.



The rhythm.
Always takes my breath away.

I feel there is something inexplicable in this video. Some kind of feeling, an emotion or maybe set of emotions that does not know any kind of words or sentences.  And yet I would like to sum it up in one word– Astounding. Completely Astounding.

Besides that, the video is amazing in itself, it is like projection of uniqueness and the kind of  a front that society gives to it, makes me realize that in the end as I feel,  only you can protect that and nobody ells would do it. The lesson of walking alone.

At last, I would say, seeing a lot of cops pointing guns at a little boy didn’t gave me goosebumps but seeing him fight back, his resilience symbolized as the energy wave in the end, definitely did.

P.S. I don’t really share videos. And I know it is not very unpopular. But still I am sharing it.  Enjoy.

And tell me what do you feel about it?

Lyrics :

You shout it out
But I can’t hear a word you say
I’m talking loud not saying much
I’m criticized but all your bullets ricochet
You shoot me down, but I get up


I’m bulletproof, nothing to lose
Fire away, fire away
Ricochet, you take your aim
Fire away, fire away
You shoot me down but I won’t fall
I am titanium
You shoot me down but I won’t fall
I am titanium

Cut me down
But it’s you who has further to fall
Ghost town, haunted love
Raise your voice, sticks and stones may break my bones
I’m talking loud not saying much

I’m bulletproof, nothing to lose
Fire away, fire away
Ricochet, you take your aim
Fire away, fire away
You shoot me down but I won’t fall
I am titanium
You shoot me down but I won’t fall
I am titanium
I am titanium
I am titanium

Stone-hard, machine guns
Firing at the ones who run
Stone-hard, those bulletproof glass

You shoot me down but I won’t fall
I am titanium
You shoot me down but I won’t fall
I am titanium
You shoot me down but I won’t fall
I am titanium
You shoot me down but I won’t fall
I am titanium
I am titanium