Penstrokes

Inspiration is intuitive logic. If this is possible, what else is?

 

How does a man stand straight? It is not his body that holds him upright. It’s what he’s done with it, and his mind and heart and hands, his time in life. We give names to all this, honor and chivalry, god knows what else. Names are capillaries. The heart is his life.

 

Why do people become defensive about the work they build? There has never been a perfect house.

 

‘Is this really what was said?’ they ask disbelieving, and so prevent you from speaking. It never is what was said. Not retroactively. Not in memory. Not by saying, ‘ when they said this, this is what they were getting at.’ There is no getting to what was said, except by sleight-of-mind. If you can build the edifices to reach there, the hanging bridge to the hanging gardens of Babylon, you will be rewarded, and called rational, or a philosopher, or a coding genius.

 

I wear a sorry mask. I am a serious Fool.

 

‘Who’ someone is is still an ‘upaadhi’ based on the work they do in public and private. In that case, why do we insist ‘caste’ is dead? We just have new names, new categories, new hierarchies.

 

The world is nothing but Relation, knowledge a fine understanding of its calibrations.

 

Life gives no second chances. So we invent love.

 

‘Shantih’ is a trembling point, on the axis of the human body.


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