time has grown old

     Life is precisely not too obnoxious always. With all ambidextrous gesture it both nourishes and perishes. With every passing moment, there is possibility to be more destined to encounter God. Superciliousness and ambivalence are only by-products of becoming old of a gauche while godliness is supplementary to growing old.  Grow old with time and beyond it; grow as old as God himself in way that spiritual equality is reached;- love is made only then, love is born only then. It was only my one year younger me, who under a subtle spiritual colonization would treat the 'August offer' as a dominion status! 

     Unconsciously vacillating between hope and fear, there stood a disguised unemployed in the developing economy of love, oblivious of his marginal-productivity-zero. The light was red indicating 'you pause', making the room for another to deliver an yield. The only possible contribution that I could always make to creativity was this much passivity,- a pause just before the threshold of climax, panting with bovine indifference. But magic happens sometimes! Sometimes the door is opened  even during the red signal of abstinence and accident happens, with blood, tears, cry and with loss of so loved identities. The woman is at ease and now it's up to the man to be bold enough to ask for the weight of his jaw muscle on the apple before the banishment from plenty of economy down to the dearth of it, a world of vicious circle of personal-time poverty... Bring it on!       

       It was not only the creation that got banished, the creator got banished too. Intimacy caused the spiritual mutation, a process of change, development, neither good nor bad- just a change, the process of growing old had already begun. Wish got detached from instinct. God became fragmented in multitudes of equal potency with our banishment. Then craving met impulse and created a society of psycho-sexuality with hope and optimism in it. Now faith meets the society and becomes religion. There stood the goggle-eyed catatonic, a tyro of religion, a fragment of multitudes: they showed me the genital but I did not notice. I was looking deep into the eyes, you tiny fragment, I did not know it was a boy!  And for the first time, quite contrary to the bliss of carpediem, for a moment or two, at exactly 11:59 daytime, we, losing pace with time, paused unchanged, still. Only time moved on and started to grow old in the small society of our celestial togetherness. That time is now one year old!