The red spot

There is a thing in the red spot. Something unnatural. Yet the most natural. It allures you, it calls you. It welcomes you, it embraces you. It hugs you, it kisses you and sucks you within – a pure attraction, like a magnetic force. Anywhere around you would like to see, you would want to see, you are struggling, you are searching to see a red spot, even if invisible. You are frantic for it, even if unconsciously. And when you find it, you feel it. It’s something close to an orgasm if you let yourself go. Completely. Ruthlessly. You are not yours then. You are complete and one with the happening. Every breath, every inch, and every drop of your being has dissolved with the red spot. Only if you let yourself drown, or take the leap, or go with the flow. If you can be the flow. Completely. Then, you are. The red spot.

You are always searching for it. Knowingly or unknowingly. You feel satisfied, content, experience peace and enjoy silence when you happen to pass by. The red spot. Only when you are in your human senses, you are capable of seeing. This red little spot.

It is nothing but the burning dot in the rapture of a bright yellow sky.

It is but the glistening spot in the cover of a dark blue night.

It is nothing but the veins of a leaf in a tree.

And the point in a pen when it goes on a spree.

It is the burning part of a smoking spliff,

And the tear in the eye of a girl so miffed.

Join me, join me, join me tonight

Oh come you sinners and please my sight

Let us sing, let us dance,

Let us freely take our chance.

So what will happen tomorrow if we think.

Joy and merry with a coffee we’ll drink.

Keep counting, keep hounding,

Wherever you stay.

I will listen or I won’t

It’s me who’ll say

How much I’ll make, and

How many I’ll break.

Tear them, their rotting rugs apart!

I want to see, I want to see

Flowers and smiles and,

Content and glee.

In despair if they be,

Tell them to talk to Him inside.

Who is Him, I will never hide.

Ask me if you want to know.

I’ve sung this song from long ago.

He is the one who’s a part of you

And a part of me, in this naive little tree.

In this stone, in this seed

In the smallest spark of fire so free.

When you are in silence so deep,

When you have gone through

A path of desire so steep,

When you have engulfed yourself,

In complete, then

You can hear Him.

But not what he says.

What he feels.

Not what he feels.

What he is.

There is something,

In the red spot. A glory.

The bindi on your forehead you wear.

It looks so beautiful.

The chandan spots very neatly

Drawn in perfect symmetry.

It looks so beautiful. Exotic.

I would love to see you like this.

But maybe not.

Why not? Maybe yes.

But not me. Only you.

You know,

There is something,

In the red spot.

Like a window,

A breath of air.

No, something more human.

Something manmade - a glory!

A tunnel of transience.

A pathway of awareness.

I am.

The feeling of existing.

Comes. When we see.

The red spot.

In anything.

It does not have to be red.

But it has to, it has to be read.

You have to see it.

In anything.

In any being.

In the top of a lollipop

Between the slippery lips

Of a girl in teens,

Trotting on heels so high

The horse could sigh.

Do you see?

Do you see the red spot?

When the wind cries,

It is in the cry.

When the ashes fly,

Look for it, where is it?

See it flies, do you see?

Do you feel?

The red spot?

When a man falls

From his saddle brawls

The moment of fall,

Or the fall itself, or

The violent leap?

What is it? Where is it?

Can you see the red spot?

It is difficult to see.

For me.

It is.

Yes.

Say that.

Say it loud.

Louder. Louder again.

It is difficult to see.

For me. It is.

Relief,

Comes with acceptance

Of your guilt, of your glory,

Of your thanks, and your sorry.

It comes with being yourself.

So accept. You should.

You have to see somehow,

Your red little spot.

Accept,

But do not tolerate.

Shoo them away if they forget.

Help them in need,

Teach them to breed.

You have to.

You’re meant to.

That is your red spot.

The path,

Is a winding way

Into the center,

The center of being.

It is not easy,

Nor is it short.

Each breath is made here

In heaven’s distraught.

There is no heaven,

If you don’t breathe.

There is no sky if you’re not freed.

You have to live this life

You have been given.

Living ain’t living, when

This red little spot becomes a fact of life.

This red little spot ain’t a fact of life,

This red little spot is itself the life.

We fools forget.

We want to see a million things,

Act like pigeons with hundred wings.

What about seeing one single thing?

With passion and patience,

For as long as we’ve been here

With us unseen.

What is this mania? What is this noise?

Why is this impatience without a voice?

It does not matter how many we look,

But it does matter how keenly we do.

How deeply we feel the one in me.

How closely we see the one to be.

You may eat, or you may hog

Who does care for a hungry dog?

Or you may choose to be a man,

Have much less for much more time.

Then you shall truly enjoy the chore, and

Relish the mundane much many more.

In a big bash party,

People sing and stomp the floor.

You and I get drunk at the door.

There is merry in what we do,

But not so merry if we do much too.

The merry lies in cherishing,

Never so much, not much in doing.

This merry may be a forgotten story

Under sheets and layers of a dusty memory.

But the red spot when you feel in it,

It comes like breeze from the ocean,

On a sultry day sipping coconut potion.

You live this moment, you cherish its flavor.

And this very moment becomes forever.

Look for the spot,

The red little spot.

It is there. Always it is.

When mother asks,

“What have you eaten?”

Look for the spot,

Like your mother does.

We fools forget.

We forget to see,

Where we’ve come from,

And where we will be.