You have these earthen pots.
Diyas, they're called.
Some you fill with paraffin, some with vegetable oil.
Notice how often it is not the texture of the wick but the
care with which
you light them, stave off with cupped hands
an idle breeze, whisper to them
that keeps them brightly burning?

But it's always a pity.
Such a pity, such a pity that you look back
and sigh
when a magnificent glowing flame is
made superfluous by a
flipped switch...

Our days are shadowy, vacant spaces illumined from time to time by a set of recognisable false dawns. Yet we persist. Yet we persist, if only to- perhaps some day- reach that peak from which to best survey the ruins, and embrace with fatherly pride the sheer perfection of our wretchedness.

Travelling with an old friend.
Auld Lang Syne, and all that.
You like it even when the
hairpin bends
Of mountain roads make you nauseous, even as
you wait for connectivity and get
mugged
by yesterday's emails. A dazzling sunset often
makes up, or a boat ride through a mangrove forest.
Mild annoyance is the only language the gods speak, didn't you know? Did you not?

Later, when your sore back is
Horizontal on a hotel bed
and the lights have to be turned off.
Damned, but alive.
Only then, on the margins of Consciousness
You wake up
To lurid Dreams of
absolution. Of joy, even.

Something must give. Something!