Einstein has got to be kidding!

Whoever said “miracles don’t happen” has got to be an agnostic. I talked to a friend last week after almost two years. One of my best pals... I was literally elated to hear from him. It was a nostalgic moment for me to have had turned my grey matter over and mulled about the times the three of us wasted every Saturday evening hopelessly lying down on the beach, mostly discussing gadgets and sometimes futile gossip. When it’s about time to leave for our homes, almost always, our topic would take a damping change of course, to the subject of the supernatural; only because one of them would talk about his impending visit to the church the following morning. As if upon reflex, the other one would argue or cast a smirk for a response which would make the two of us upset. Not because we try to make him believe in the Supreme Being, but because he simply refused to believe in miracles, although he has witnessed several himself!

I strongly think that one should believe in miracles. Life is too short to prove every single thing that happens to you through the world of science. I have had many a miracle. And I prefer to call my miracles, God!

The fact that I’m back to blogging after a full 18 day slumber by itself is a miracle for someone that gives little attention to routine. Thank God for me, I still haven’t considered blogging mundane. A stress-buster it is for me. And how I discovered blogging itself is a miracle. :)

But why am I talking about miracles? Because they happen to us in the most bizarre ways at the most bizarre time.

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Nevertheless, since I’ve been away from blogging for quite a while now and now that it’s improbable that I might be blogging regularly, here’s a little poem (?? composition, if you will) in response to a prompt from Sunday Scribblings.

An endeavor for knowledge may sometimes lead to blissful ignorance
Echoes of crude words and ill manners fading through the years
Eccentricity could be a boon, quirkiness a bane, after downing a couple of beers
Knowing the density of the catastrophe
Knowing when not to talk
Knowing when to smile for an answer
Knowing when to respond with a mime
Promises chiseled into the sands of time
Some kept, some broken prematurely, some twisted to suit convenience
Sonnets and tales, never did they seem more delirious
Memories of painted nails and parting lips
Of pale pink, to hot pink, to shocking pink
Eighty can still be an immature age, or so she thinks
A surreal feeling of holding hands
Comforting the blistered palm and hardened heart
Wishful of breaking open the time-capsule
Desirous of traveling back to the good days
When her hands were steadier
When her memory never failed
When promises sounded like music
But then there’s hope, and then there’s hope

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Congratulations to the ladies from Sunday Scribblings on their 100th prompt. You have never ceased to inspire me.

For more posts on time machine, go here!