A little prose is like a perfect rose...each of its fragments swirls in one uniform line around and around from a fertile base and opens into a broader vista of meanings and perceptions.
Poetry...just trails off at every chance it gets.Like a poet of its own device. Trails off deeper into some imagery, and a little near the surface in others....but stray it does...
I have three very precise realisations to note down.Maybe I will 'poetry'-fy them one day..but for now,prose is my best man.
1.Wisdom. It is not about speaking wise words in an emotionless,levelled voice.It is about speaking of emotions at an wise stance.
2.Life.It is not being thrilled by books,images,of the 'unknown' and hence seeking them out as beauties of life.It is about discovering the beauties that no scholar has heard of...mostly in the smaller things.Not Taj Mahal,but the crooked teeny shack by the canal.
3.Love. Its not one thing.But many things.And one can love many,in succession,in a lifetime,and anyone who tells you you're fickle has no idea how short life is and how generous love is.