Home

I have always believed home was something physical, an attribution to a physical place. A place where you felt at home; where you felt right; where physical space and meaning produced a sense of well-being.

Having left home for distant shores, i had forgotten how it felt. Last week, i felt it again. And it was not because i went home again. It was because i went to visit old friends of mine. Old as in a comfortable pair of old leather shoes.

It was then it struck me. Home is not a physical space. It is to do with people. People - bonded to you by blood or just passing by - create that special place; in the space around you and in your head.

To the people who did that for me, my gratitude.

A page from the tome of desire

10 miles had already past. my bottle of water had only a sip of gatorade left. the road ascended to the heavens ahead. i told myself i would reward myself with it once i am over it. the wild flowers i had picked only a couple of miles before had already wilted in my pocket, unable to take the heat. a pity, i thought.

i was over the hill. i lustily filled my mouth with the last drops of gatorade. a voice in my head told me, sip it slowly; let it slowly trickle down your parched throat. i gulped it all at once. my stomach groaned at the sudden sugar burst. my mouth went back to being dry in seconds. cars whizzed passed me. few motorists looked on curiously, at the flowers sticking out my pocket.

the road stretched on endlessly. the nearest gas station was atleast another twenty minutes of running. the sun was going down and a cool evening breeze had begun to blow. i had stopped sweating and the cool evening breeze wicked away the last traces of sweat from my body, leaving me in a ghostly white shroud of salt.

I was getting hungry. But the thirst was even greater. there were small ponds by the road. i was tempted to dip my empty bottle into them. a sprinkler in a nearby neighbourhood had given birth to a a small trickle of clear water that was flowing along the sidewalk. i almost did put my bottle to the ground to collect a mouthful of water. i decided not to. not because of a false sense of propriety; just didn't feel like it.

my mouth began to crave for a sip of gatorade. hunger was not far behind. my legs were tired and craving for energy. visions of chewy snickers bars and gooey peanuts being crunched on and coating every tatebud in my mouth began to drive me crazy. i saw a shell gas station a mile down the road. my body responded immediately. i grew light and i ran with a new spring in my step. i shot across the lights at the intersection and into the convenience store. i picked up the gatorade and hopped over to the candy section. my hands were almost trembling when i reached for the king size snickers peanut bar. i sauntered to the cashier and paid. i stepped out put the snickers bar in my pocket; anticipation to heighten the taste of pleasure. i greedily gulped on the cold gatorade. i drank till all traces of thirst were drowned. the snickers had waited enough. i pulled it out of my pocket, unwrapped and took a large hungry bite. it was everything i had expected it to be and so much more. fruitition at last. i kept at it, gobbling one sweet mouthful after another. it kept me company for another four miles. i put the last bite in my pocket; wanting to savour the precious last mouthful when i got home.

i got home with a raspy throat. the cold gatorade had deceived me. miniscule bits of peanuts trapped in my throat gave me no peace. my stomach reprimanded me for all that sugar.

a half empty bottle of gatorade and and the precious last piece of snickers lie on my table. i wonder, what manner of affliction caused so much longing? where is it now?

Desire and Despair of the Endless

Desire is of medium height. It is unlikely that
any portrait will ever do Desire justice, since to
see her (or him) is to love him (or her), -
passionately, painfully, to the exclusion of all
else.

Desire smells almost subliminally of summer
peaches, and casts two shadows: one black and
sharp-edged, the other translucent and forever
wavering, like heat haze.

Desire smiles in brief flashes, like
sunlight glinting from a knife-edge. And there is
much else that is knife-like about Desire.

Never a possession, always the possessor, with
skin as pale as smoke, and eyes tawny and
sharp as yellow wine: Desire is everything you
have ever wanted. Whoever you are. Whatever
you are.

Everything.


Despair, Desire's sister and twin, is queen of
her own bleak bourne. It is said that scattered
through Despair's domain are a multitude of tiny
windows, hanging in the void. Each window
looks out onto a different scene, being, in our
world, a mirror. Sometimes you will look into a
mirror and feel the eyes of Despair upon you,
feel her hook catch and snag your heart.

Her skin is cold and clammy; her eyes are the
colour of the sky, on the grey, wet days that leach
the world of colour and meaning; her voice is
little more than a whisper; and while she has no
odour, her shadow smells musky, and pungent,
like the skin of a snake.

Many years gone, a sect in what is now
Afghanistan declared her a goddess, and
proclaimed all empty rooms her sacred places.
The sect, whose members called themselves
The Unforgiven, persisted for two years, until its
last adherent finally killed himself, having
survived the other members by almost seven
months.

Despair says little, and is patient.

-- Neil Gaiman, Season of Mists, THE SANDMAN.