Orange

 A  burst of orange flowers lie quietly in the corner of a garden.

Rising over stems of green, they flutter like orange butterflies in the late morning breeze.                                                                                                                                            

Each one, independent of the others; a part of a family.

The Sacrifice

Life would not be complete if one never makes a trip to the cemetery or columbarium.  Imagine where we would be if Siddhartha Gautama never learned about suffering and death.

So I took another trip to the War Cemetery.  To remind myself that there are so many things to be thankful for.

So many worthwhile memories I have had over the years.

So many people and things I have taken granted for.

There are so many young men and women here.  Gone before they could have given more in life.  But they have given; some in courage, some in vain.

There will be family and friends who still miss them after all these years.  They were taken before the family and friends could have a proper farewell.

Live each moment well.  They didn't know when their time would come to an end.  And honestly, neither do we.  Every moment alive is a moment we can choose - to curse, to swear, to grumble, to complain.

Or to celebrate.

Soar

I soar in the wind.  Free from worries.  Free from cares.  It is not the wind that bears me.  It is me, riding on the thermal currents.  I make flight happen; not the wind.

I am the master of my destiny.  Not the wind, not the sun, not the elements.

I have been created to rule the skies.

And so I do.

Others will emulate me; and try to fly like me.  But they are merely imitators and they will never be me.

When I soar, I become an inspiration for others.  I will shine.  Not just for them, but for myself as well.

Aged Emptiness

An old park bench beckons.  Mildew on the stone frame and mould on the wooden slats.  Old and forgotten.  Each day lots of people pass by it.  Almost none stop by.  Most are aware of its existence.  Some will complain that it is an eyesore.

From time to time, the birds land on it - probably the only beings that use it.  They leave after a brief stopover, leaving nothing but droppings.  Some passers by will comment about the filth that surrounds it.  The decaying leaves, the marks of the years of avian droppings.

Its only company is the tree that provides some shade and comfort in the sun and rain.  And perhaps the equally lonely bench next to it.  Together, they stare into the openness ahead of them.  Watching the sun rising and feeling the last warmth as the sun sets behind them.  Only to repeat the cycle of rising and setting, rising and setting, rising and setting.

Aged.  Forgotten.  Ignored.

Waiting in quiet silence for the day when someone will come and dismantle them and cart them away.

The stone to be broken, the wood to be burnt.