Everyone is heard of suicide bombers these days. Thanks to the apt attention they get in the media. At the same time there is a smaller subset of folks who neither get much attention in any publicity stunt nor have their ‘inspiration’ soaring high enough.

These are the folks whom would you meet every day if you are riding on blr roads. These are the suicide riders. An entirely fresh new breed beaming with highest level of stupidity. Yes, anticipation is the key and all that jazz is fine. Truth is either you hit me or you are hit, end result is the same. I ain’t gonna cry and neeli ain’t no nice one.

one of the side effect of the encounter is that you forget the shopping list you are making en route, when an immediate need arises for effective use of the ‘french’ language skills.

What makes us, us? Us not to see! Us not to appreciate simple truths, efforts, energy!

‘cos we have never heard a song, song of the earth through a peasants tune in a remote corner of mountain!
‘cos we have never heard a song on radio on long winding road late in the night!
‘cos we have never heard the beat inside the voice of struggling soul making end meet and in love with music!
‘cos we have never exposed ourselves to wide world, we’ve been hiding behind the fear of corruption of our assumed purity a.k.a what would my neighbour (who thinks me as a purist follower) say if I experiment with my listening/playing?!
‘cos we never read a poem shining with the scent of the first rain of June nor a prose with all the shades of a blue evening breeze!

can’t blame, some need some push. some just can’t seem to think that they can think.

tripped over wind from the southwest
its carrying me anywhere,
everywhere

tumbling, trembling, rolling
there goes another,
the dust in the wind

swept off its feet
breathing life in wind,
happy is the flame