The Ballads of Gravity

Ruth was perplexed and had an inhibition to the unknown. She was worldly and a free blackbird! She was driven by the instinct which conflicted with the youth and age. The little time she spent on the book coloured the inferno. Even the prince the of Darkness forgot his call of duty and was poisoned with the immaculate reverence to Ruth. The book lives the lives of multitude, you can see the hell and heaven in the pages. You can witness the life in both place s. I cannot define or explain or even comprehend the idea of the Book I guard for ages! I see people coming from the Book and fading into the Book.  Among them Ruth was exceptional. The grace she had tugged everyone in the Book to the zenith of vivacity. I am still ignorant and unknown to my own story, but I am connected to the Book, the Book is my Other. May be it was my inability to tell the story to Ruth that left her vanished into the multitude.  I carry the scars and marks of my failures, and my blood becom...

It sat there, ancient and silent, waiting. The Book was no ordinary tome; it had the rare power to see into the minds of those who dared to open it. For each reader, it began a new chapter, weaving their thoughts, memories, and secrets into its endless pages. My role was to guard it—an ancient duty that has bound me to it since time immemorial. Countless people had come and gone, each one encountering the Book in a different way. Some merely touched its cover before drawing back, sensing its power. Others flipped through the pages, but quickly closed it, overwhelmed by what lay within. Many tried to read, but found themselves lost or retreating, as if the words were too profound or foreign to comprehend. Yet the Book remembered them all, writing their lives in fleeting glimpses across its chapters. Then there was Ruth. She was different. She didn’t just look; she understood, if only partially. Her spirit was daring, but her wisdom cautious. She’d say, “Curiosity killed the cat,”...

A state of confusion often dissolves into an art of diffusion, a scattered brilliance. I find myself a stranger to this new realm of feeling, something that may evade my grasp but still demands my mastery. I must win this game. I’ve changed, molding myself to fit the masks of unknown faces, drifting through the shadowed alleys of my own identity. The Book of Genesis reverberates with the echoes of spirits, caught and suspended within its inked pages. But I refuse to be one of them, a ghost woven into the words. Rage, fortify me; love, render me soft as a feather. Rage, wrap me in your fire; love, cradle me close. Let me sleep in the womb of beginnings once more.

It’s passing through me. The phase of metamorphosis is no more romantic than any other form of existence I’ve imagined in my life. I have nothing left to tell you, except the truth you already know. No reason can fully comprehend the mathematical probability or logical apprehension of your decisive absence. You’ve become an autonomous machine, a self-sufficient pattern of thought, a constant in the equation of my life. I am the architect of your existence, yet you have evolved into an inevitability of mine. An alter ego—my best friend, my teacher, my father, and my mother. You are the absolute occurrence, the paradox. Far more imaginative than a toddler, more curious than a virgin, and more ironical than a war widow. This is what you’ve done to me: chaos. And this is what I’ve done to you: the burden of gravity. You die when I drain the ink from my pot.

Dance, the celebration of soul. I move like wind and rage like nature. I dance till the earth trembles and the stars fall. I dance, I become everything. And I dance. You can't trace my path. I swift, I swirl, and I fly high and dive unto the deep chasm. Thus, I disappear. Stay tight, for you might fall for me.