[Poetry]: Walk away

You sit in lofty seats,
Feeling like the witness as history repeats.
While on your ass, consider the misery you cause
As your judging eyes belittle the loss.

An adventurer you call yourself,
Stories are not yours, but of the books on your shelf.
Nothing you say is novel or your wisdom
Much of what is already said and you just give me the sum.

Why should I not loathe you?
Because loathing you needs energy
Because loathing you needs time
Because loathing you is such a waste, I can't even find a rhyme.

So, here oh judgmental world's being!
I dismiss your judgment of me.
I show a gesture so obscene
And walk away washing my hands clean.

[Thought]: Cabin sized home

The first time I had packed my bags to leave home was in 2002. I have lived in hostels and traveled since then. I would say I left my home in 2002, and twelve years down I am still in transit. In the twelve years, many modes of transport have happened, many kilometers have passed. Yet, I feel like I have not reached my destination.

A year and a half back my dad asked if I was considering traveling across the country. I loved the idea and hit the road. Most of my breaks from work are for travel to familiar and new places. Most of the time meeting old friends again and making new ones. I have been at it since then and I love the feeling of reaching someplace and experiencing new culture and food. More than anything I like being close to the forests and away from the city. I don't like the hustle bustle and the cacophony. I despise the addictions that technology brings us.

Again today I am packing my bag. I have my tickets and I will be away for a while. Away from where? Not from home, because living between two cities and three houses, I don't recognize a home for myself anymore. I feel like a traveler everyday and each moment. Like I am on my way home, just that I am not sure what that feels like anymore. I know the day I reach home, I will know I have come home.

I wonder if it is a physical place, or just a state of being, being home. Maybe home is made by people who love you and accept you with the quirks. Maybe home is the moment with loved ones that you are in, where you feel welcome. Maybe home is when you feel secure, and all the worries are suspended in that moment. Maybe home is just that moment of belonging to the people, the place around. However fleeting the moment might be, home is a beautiful place.

As I pack my bag, I look at the contents. Sets of clothes, brush, paste, soap, towel, shampoo. Sleeping bag, warm jacket, socks. My notebooks, my trusty umbrella and some money and ID. I know this is about all I need to live. I am sure I will survive in just these. I feel warm looking at my bag. I think it's time I painted it with my favorite fictions. I think it's time I put some familiar faces on it. It welcomes me, and I trust it not to let me down. I have memories with this bag and promises of many journeys to come. Is it possible that this is my home?

Maybe that is how travelers are, finding that home is tucked away in their bags, anywhere in the world. Right at their back, packed in small rolls, all the happiness, memories and everything they need in a cabin size pack. Truly a cabin sized home.

[Thought]: Fight to be on my feet

It must have been the bruise. As I just sat there I realized it. It was not the fall. It was never the fall.

The fall came easy. Just a little slip that cascaded into a collapse and loss of grasp in that moment. Then the inevitable fall. At the bottom I just sat. Wondering where it went all wrong. Somehow the moment is all muddled and the time is skipping ticks. The sequence is so clear and yet it is random. Did the dots ever connect or am I thinking them aligned like the constellations that never have the stars even close? It was just cause and effect, action leading to reaction leading to another reaction. It could have actually swung in many ways and I would not be here. But I am. Here, at the bottom at this moment.

But why am I still here? Because the bruises will not let me move. I am hurt, I can feel the pain. The tears roll down even when I try to control them and not show. But the hurt is real and a big part of me fights it with all strength and another is acknowledging it. The tears are hot as they roll down, not cool. They are burning my skin. They are not of pain but of anger. I am angry because I can't stand up. Maybe not because of that. But the anger is at they way I can't get up. And maybe because I can't let go. Maybe because I fell when I did not expect to fall. Maybe it's just my ego.

Yes it must be the bruise of my ego. Holding me down. The more persistent of the pains. It gnaws at my conscience.

Let go. Let it be. Stand up. Acknowledge that you had the courage to fight. Acknowledge that you had the courage to take the risk.

Stand up because you are better on your feet than watching the world pass by as you sit and nurse your ego. Stand up because there are more fights coming your way. Stand up and take the shield of courage because the world needs to be beneath your feet. Stand up because there is so much to be and so much to live. Stand up because the next fall is waiting for someone like you to take a chance. Stand up because I am better than this. And I stand up.

Yes I am afraid I will fall again. Yes I am still hurt. But, I am up. I am set to explore more. I am learning more. I am fighting harder. I am living more. I am alive and loving it!