Sandstorm, In A Shower

Where does this thought take birth?
And who is the one that is thinking? And who thought before Him?
And who acts? And who acted before Him?

The highest and clearest thoughts entangle with the fleeting present; and deep in one’s senses resides the past – sometimes clearer than present, many a times visible as scars. There is something electric about it – an arc and a burn mark.

He observes the world through a lens that is coated with the never-settling dust of existence raised by the winds of time. New patterns over new patterns – sometimes information, sometimes knowledge.

He stands still amidst the shifting sands and takes comfort in the change, which is a feeling of movement. He pretends to remember the shape of every dune which He saw until now – attempting to navigate the past. Hopefully chaining these memories he thinks, “Surely, I must be going somewhere.”

But, He forgets that He is also the grain of sand in this desert, like the others living and unliving. This thought extends beyond Him, into all He can touch, hold, think of or name. It’s not His anymore. And in this churning there are sparks; the flashes let Him see briefly, remember and think; of the fleeting present, imprinting a memory or leaving a scar.

He is close to finding out. It must be the desert. It must be the wind.

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A bit like you.