The Quest

There are times when a simple thought leads us to the greatest of discoveries. I have never known that horizon where the quest seems to take a firm shape. There is no action. There is just no action. It feels like there are several shackles that bind me to the stasis of life. Sometimes, the best time is when I am alone. It is the best time in which I miss, I ponder and I winnow out the distractions from the attractions. Its truly a unique feeling to be the only one who knows you. It is the time of life where everyone I know is running towards some nebulous future. The ones who seem to have reached there look like heroes to me. The greatest question to plague my mind is that of identity. It's a secret I want to find. It's so intrinsic that I need to be blind. Blind to the rush around me, to be at the head of this rush which inundates the world, and then I wont be in a rush at all. Incongruities of consciousness. The existential dilemma. I'll stay.

The Exodus

We begin sometime in the twenty first century, when a delusional 18 year old swam for the first time in waters untested around islands unforseen within a mist where he wasn't holding on to himself at all, where in fact he lost everything... Bindings, memories, friends, touch, contact and healing. It wasn't a matter of living on, it was a question of lasting long enough. It was an odd quiddity of the divinity that be and still is: what, where and who was he going to be. This boy or rather a man, tearing ranks, humbling naivete and decimating reason edged on facts that dodged sensiblity and jeapordized the sane reserves of his world. 
Lands, villages, clusters, bridges of dissolute topography that unequivocally resound the whispers of a silent and pervasive Oracle, that prophesize to be silent and release a fish into a sea, miles and knots of unabiding oceans. This journey, taken by him twice a year is a round trip of introspection. It unravles as much as it hides and tantalizes issues which simmer over his common business of life. As Kalinga Utkal Express, Train No. 8478 hums its majestic form onto the elevation of concrete subtley assisting its boarders: the charmed men and women, their entranced lives change a little bit every time they sift through the corridoors of its bogeys. It takes him where time, life and solvency are all but figments of a dimming light of the sun. It ingratiates him, everytime, with cavernous spaces which posses clandestine qualities and a hypnotic abandon which at large, fumbles on the cogitative faculties of human rationale.

I, in no uncertainty am the boarder of the connection that has tethered me in areas of greyness. I am, in deed and thought a traveller, meeting and fancying fellow travellers, who originate like me in distant shelves of civilization, in robust cultures and gardens of lazy love bathed in sunlight from over rooftops in a land where fairies come to rechristen hope and foster dreams each night in eyes that long for their destiny...