Leaving to stay longer

What happens to words? No, not the ones written down or tweeted or documented in other forms. I mean the words that are spoken out, either softly or out loud. Where do they go? Do they accumulate somewhere? Or do they reincarnate themselves at will? How far can the wind carry the burden of words? Is there a reason why humans are blessed with languages while other living beings are recognized by their calls? Or is it actually a curse? Besides, we made our entry with our usual annoying wail, didn't we?

To NOT answer all these questions, here's one more addition to my list of falling-flat-on-face theories: Words turn into stars and shine. Truer the words, brighter they shine. False ones try to breakthrough but they fail—unlike on Earth—as the laws of sky don't suit them. The sincere ones remain eternal.

Damn. This theory doesn't work in polluted Bombay where the stars have already left. And only the ever-changing moon is left.

A restless stroll

Something troubled him,

like wind troubles leaves...

So he kept moving
trying to run, trying to flee,
in search of quiet and peace.

In the end, he received neither.

Regardless, he carried on,

hoping someday he'll catch them both

and they'll be his first and last.

One noon, he looked up at the sky

and asked himself, "Why do i have to journey?"

He waited for an answer 

but couldn't hear a voice.

So he looked down at his feet and asked them, "Can you two stop?"

They said in unison, "Yes, we can. Not."

Dejected, he kept walking

like a moron without a cause.

Happened days, weeks, months, years and a lot. 

No moment of glory awaited him

nor a distant village nor a wonderful lass.
Only the beauty of an unrequited future did. 

The poor man walked and walked

till the road disappeared and his minds crossed...

Only to meet that moment of truth

resulting from a lost trail.

The wind caressed his open eyes 

before entering his closed mouth,

while the ground kissed his back,
his soul left a lasting spark.

Even the sun couldn't help smiling at

his lively departure with a dead heart.

Gross imitations

What's common to famous personalities like Mark Twain, Sigmund Freud, Winston Churchill, Gunter Grass and Hunter S. Thompson? Besides being exceptionally gifted as writer, you'll notice a smoking pipe in almost all their portraits clicked in their drawing rooms with the window illuminating the pages they filled. [Related: I've taken a liking for asking questions only to reply them myself.] No, not a supermodel-thin cigarette but a healthy short stick to inhale unhealthy fume. It adds charisma to their larger-than-fiction persona. The way a superbike or a sports car does to today's concept of machismo. Accessory is the word. I wish i did but i don't smoke so i often find myself typing with a toothbrush in my mouth. It's an ugly scenario for an otherwise pleasant morning. My toothbrush pretends to a smoking pipe generating this liquidy white smoke—to be spat out as late as possible. If i end up as a good writer (because there's no such a thing as a great one), i'll ensure that the foam sticking to my lips leave an impression on nicotine addicts.