Origin

I wonder about origin all the time. In pits of time lies a beautiful beginning of all the poems with soft kicks and loud cries, and that beautiful smile of the poetess, usually alive. I like beginnings, but origins intrigues me. Isn’t it fascinating, how just an idea can be converted in words, and how some words convert into ideas, and how 2 cells unite to form a human, alive?

I wonder about origin all the time. Not about wolverine, nor about x-men, just about the big bang, and the blends of red and yellow, and the massive fire, which none has seen. Or we have all seen that, in ourselves, in our mind, that breaks into bits and pieces of anger and arts, just like universe did, into sun and this starry night, and into planets all red, unaware of what they are.

I wonder what would have it been like, layers flowing over one another and mixing in; when waves were made of lava, and there was no sight of water. And how the warmth of sun changed everything slowly, parched lava just like leaves, and how we now live on a choco lava cake, eating it, destroying it a bit every day. And we still smile, in destruction we find beauty, and in beauty we want to survive.

And when I imagine the origin of humans, I see skeletons, naked and alive, being slowly covered in layers of skin, over which leaves and skins of animals used to hang. I see long and dirty nails change slowly into short and clean ones, and animal skin being replaced by clothes, body hairs not being appreciated anymore. I see us hiding in the shawl of sophistications, restricting out freedom, building a cage around ourselves, and learning to restrict others too. And I also see feelings, and love, and men and women getting entangled in each other, crawling inside each others’ heart, I see the origin of love. Oh I see too much to describe!

I think about origin all the time, of white lights of night sky, being emitted by red stars, still not calm, of poems and letters and of midnight dreams, of music and songs, and feelings for people, and these thoughts superficial. And I fear someday I will find that all of these are mere illusion, that there wasn’t any big bang, and we were never cave-men. I fear someday I will find that I am just a thought, in some artist’s mind; then I again wonder, what’s the origin of these thoughts I spilled? Maybe a thought, a view or a glimpse, or was it just a random line-‘I wonder about origin all the time’.

The Puzzle Maker