Ashksymphony

She used to ask me often, 'You are a poet, an author. Why don't you ever describe my love? Not me.. But the way I love. Not the way we make love.. But the feeling that my love is.. Why don't you tell me if I am a storm or the gentle patter of the rains? No actually.. Not me, my love.. What's it's character to you? Does it remind you of the constantly restless, unsettled desires & inquisitiveness of the Renaissance? Or is it like the after shower of dust post an air-raid in World War II? Or is it the rage, despair and audacity of the World War itself? Why don't you ever write about the anchoring emotion of my love's personality? Is it like a wild fire, or does it incite in you the feel of touching the surface of the lake? Is it grounded as a serene meadow besides a stream or as flamboyant as a thunderstorm? Does it smell like a crowded city night, or like the sultry afternoon on a sea shore? What taste of fear does it have? Like

Creaking Chair Part VI 24 June 1999 It was one of those days which was tiring.. Not physically of course..that’s the usual story every day at my age It was exhausting mentally.. and I somehow feel just as drained as in the year 1967 And I am glad some things in life never change Like standing under the cold water shower for a long time As Manu used to say, ‘as the drops run through your head to toe, it drains away your thoughts’ I still remember that day I took the plunge.. One of the hottest Summer we had seen was ending in June And my father was fuming with rage watching me pack my bags My mother was equally troubled … but with emotions much more mellow than my father’s His was rage filled with concern … hers was concern filled with a sinking sorrow And there was I, in my late 20’s … as rebellious as my grand-daughter today is in her early 20’s.. That’s what they call Generation Gap I guess Did you feel a sudden edge in my tone there? At least I thoug