by akshay mahajan on 01:15
"Self" is a good name for an autobiography, not that I’m going to write one. Incidently I'am reading an autobiography,called Self,by Yann Martel. I really like his writing, this the second book I have read of his, after Life of Pi. As I write this my dial up connection is playing up. I hate dail-ups they keep on disconnecting every 20 or so minutes. Looks like it not even connecting and that high pitch sounds that it makes while connecting is troubling my left ear. Finnally the internet is up again. Reconnecting does sometime get on my nerve. Silence does not personify me therefore I'll just put on some music. I found that sometimes are so trivial but are so difficult a classical example of this is drawing a perfect circle freehand.
I'am moving away from here now. A journey , an adventure, a new chapter in the book of my life.
But uncertainty lurks yonder
My earliest memories on the earth take me back to a one bedroom apartment. My window jailed me behind an iron grill. The grill painted white, the paint peeling as I chewed .A metallic taste .Yum .The window faced an empty desolate abandoned warehouse. I smiled as I saw sparrows bathing in small puddles of water. Migratory birds flew overhead. Some pink others white flew in formation and swooped in as the landed on to a barren piece of concreted floor .Pruning their feathers I watched then intently. They were tall, taller then the likes of me, long slender legs with branched toes. Their faces stained in read and their eyes reflected the sun. They danced in the water .As they dance it began to rain. A gentle drizzle. Their danced instensified with the beat of falling water. They jumped, hopped and they danced, swaying their wings like hands.
Only later I would know their names. As dusk fell, and the rain subsided. I faced the east; the red glow covered the sky like a rash. The dancers of the skies left the wet red earth like angels in to the sunset. The Siberian Cranes, yes they were.
They were like flowers in the wind.