o c e a n . f l o o r

I am sitting still inside a silent cave

The cave is in an ancient mountain

The mountain is near to a slow river

The river is flowing like memories

and merging with the sea around the turn.

The ocean seems holding back a lot.

Whatever arrives stays there for a while.

It's depth conceals everything from the sun.

The retrieved darkness of the day retreats

into the murkiness of the ocean floor.

Everyone goes to bed with memories

Good and bad ones, all generate dreams.

Most of them vanish in the morning.

Where do all the forgotten dreams go?

Into this murky depth of ocean floor?

dreams die, decay, and resurrect later

into the sleeping souls of the ships above.

I am now sitting with a slow breath.

My thoughts are slowing down my mind

Memories are diffused like forgotten dreams

I am sitting now on a silent ocean floor.

_____________________________

graphics: 'memories' /sebastian©2009

w a r m . s k i n

Tuned drum-skin has an optimum tension

It can not be over tightened, which will break it open

It can not be too less as there won't be any sound

It is about the right amount of tuned tension.

The leading drummer keeps the beat

and the rest of the players mix their rhythms.

The thoughts are like on-going drum beats

They come one after the other from nowhere

Some are synchronized and others are not.

After the improvisations and stylizations,

as the evening grew late into the night,

when the drummers had left the stage,

the skin remained warm through the night

with the memory of those skilled fingers.

___________________

Photo: 'Djembe Drummers'

Irving Arts Center, Dallas /Sebastian©2007

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Djembe

S e e i n g . B e l i e v i n g

The mountain stands against the sky.
If the sky vanishes, so does the mountain.
The boat is just there in the silent lake.
If the lake goes, so does the boat.

The scene is determined by the eye
as the perspective is decided by
the perception of the 'eye-mind'.
An eagle can spot a fish far down
from way up above the sky
for that is what she wants to see.

Seeing is believed to be real
as the unseen is yet to be seen.
The unfelt is considered unreal,
and the unheard is not there for sure.
The unknown is a source of fear
as long as the known is secure enough.
If the confinement is comfortable
why bother flying into an open sky?

The presence of invisible is felt at times
when we realize our sense perception alone
can not substantiate the absence of it.

The sound of a falling tree in an un-maned forest
is echoed by the sound of one hand clapping.
Both may be heard clearer or felt nearer
by an ancient tree or an old monk, the rock.
Or are they totally unaware of it?

Then again,

is the forest itself just a thought?

photo: 'waterfront-2' / texas /summer2009©sebastian

u n d i s c l o s e d . l o c a t i o n

A person retreats into an undisclosed location

when being outcasted or threatened for life.

Which is the ideal hiding place for such a soul?

In an underground bunker or unknown basement?

In the military fort or deep inside the palace?

Inside a mountain cave or in a remote island?

Behind a water fall or inside a broken castle?

Top of an ancient red-wood or under the river bed?

Under the Grand Canyon or between the tall rocks?

In the hidden valleys of Himalayan ranges?

Up in a distant space station?

In a floating ship of uncharted waters?

or down under the Arctic snow?

Inside ones own heart or brain?

Behind the mirror image of one's own face?

Where can one hide from oneself, after all?

photo: 'outlet' /texas summer /2009©sebastian

r e m e m b r a n c e

Somewhere in this planet now,
a new born is taking its first breath;
and an old one is exhaling for the last time.
In between these two breaths,
In between one's birth and death,
all the good, the bad and the ugly things happen.
We realize later the bad things were not that ‘bad’ after all,
and so called ‘good things’ were somewhat exaggerated.

We try to remember only the good times,
and wish to cherish them all to feel fine.
But we end up never forgetting the bad ones,
as they had left deeper scars than the good ones.

One writes a nice and long memoir
and strives to leave a good ‘legacy’,
knowing that they all fade away later.
Epic memories of even the greatest of heros
last only for certain generations.

The teachings of masters get corrupted
after years of wrong interpretations.
Some precious scriptures are lost for ever.
Even the survived ones last only some centuries.

For the planet, these are routine drills,
and she spins on with a melancholic smile.
If we listen gently, we can hear in silence,
the feeble sounds of her spin with a grin.

photo: 'waterfront' / texas /summer2009©sebastian

t h r e e . p i e c e . l u g g a g e

The discord and friction in daily living bring out the emotional baggage. Even when this activation is painful, it can make one grounded and real.

Each person carries three pieces of luggage. The one we are born with, is the genetic bag. Second one is accumulated 'stuff' throughout our life. Early childhood plays an important role here. Third one is somewhat like a carry-on which we face with on a daily basis. If we carry-on to the next day and so on, it will end up in the second bag, the one stored for life. I bet there is no wait limit for that one!

All our actions are the responses to this hidden baggage. We all are identified with it. That is our identity, story-line and destiny. This narrative is a self assuring projection, that brings together similarly burdened souls too. One may not feel this burden until the torture becomes unbearable.

The awareness to see this drama from outside and developing a multi-dimentional-vantage-point is the only way out. This may be the reason why we are here after all; to learn this skill. We can choose to exit the scene kicking and screaming, burdened with this luggage or drop all the bags and walk away free.

This is a tough choice; a heroic one.

painting: 'Three bags' / watercolour/ Sebastian Varghese/ 2007©Sebastian

e t e r n a l . g l o r y

Fossils emanate the history of the land. The earth beneath is layered with stories of the distant past to the recent times. The epics of heros and warriors are embedded in the relics. When the dust of war has settled, the remains showed the futility of their victories as well as their defeats. Great heros looked like ordinary mortals towards end of their lives. They all acted side by side in the grand opera of life, where forms come, play their part and vanish on this rotating stage for countless generations. The theatre of 'anitcha' unfolds and enfolds seamlessly and endlessly. Layers and layers of soil is socked in the thick blood of pain mixed with sweet tears of happiness. The human drama happening above the terrains for eons, revolve in a mighty whirlpool of unseen space-time continuum.

Here we are trying to make our thoughts and emotions relevant by sticking on to our stories. The tales of ordinary heros. The 'eternal glory' that humans are striving for, is a funny concept indeed!

Painting: 'Relics-2' /Watercolour /Sebastian Varghese /June2009©sebastian

s u c c e s s

The road to success is an endless one, as a perpetual success in life does not seem possible. It feels as though the moment just before success is more fulfilling than it’s actualization. The excitement and anticipation seems more satisfying. One realizes that down the road, material success becomes futile. In an absolute sense, every attempt is a failure unless it leads to the transcendence of death. If rejections and failures teach the best of lessons learned in life, it can not be called a failure in the long run.

Human mind or our ego inherently has an air of insecurity inside, a feeling of inadequacy, a sense of loss, a need to have more to be fulfilled. As we try to make meaning out of everything on our way, we edit and update our old beliefs and value. If we can not come in terms with this 'moving focus' each and every moment, we are bound to be restless.

Photo: 'Road to New Mexico' / Texas /Nov.2009©Sebastian.

o w n e r s h i p

The song is sung and the stories are told

the sun is set and the night has fallen

forms have dissolved into the dark valley

distant mountains stood dispassionate

the river remained still like molten gold

the neutrality of the breeze claimed nothing

the sun did not take pride in the majestic sky

can the stillness of the birds claim the tranquility

can a melting candle pride the ownership of its flame

or can a midnight lily be proud of her fragrance

Only the human species are burdened by ownership.

photo: 'texas sun' / texas /summer2009©sebastian

T o u g h . L o v e

If one can not value, feel

and see through

the tough love early on,

life is going to be

tougher later.

photo: 'university of oklahoma' / oklahoma/ summer workshop2008©sebastian