Traveling through northern India made me question myself and my relationship with the very essence of time. There were endless things to see, to smell, to touch, but there wasn't enough time to do everything. I battled between absorbing everything while simultaneously questioning my surroundings. Time only allows for so much.
I am a sponge whose absorbing abilities were put to the test. Acceptedly soaking up my surroundings, my questioning voice hushed.
However, as the days passed, deceit clouded my conscious as I realized the raw trick life plays on me. On all of us. Time can only allow for so much.
Ticking me in every direction to only find myself able to have a blink of a moment worth keeping from this exotic India where I live.
A wall painted in yellow piss drinking from
A slender man washing
A shirt in the crooked sidewalk's grime water where
A family strutted by with crying babies and needy toddlers desperately pointing at
A whistling puppet of finely tattered silks telling tales of old of
A wall in a far off temple concentrated with tourist-polution who bare
A pale, tantalizing shoulders that slip into the gaze of
A heavily bearded sikh man sheathing his blade as
A dividing line strikes boarders into the bonds of families who belonged to
A once unified land of brothers, sisters, mothers and
A father wearing robes and glasses taught new ways of living to
A people who know suffering far to well by the unwelcome fist of
A distant dominance now gone leaving
An infinite gash in the hearts that beat to the thriving rhythm of buzzing rickshaws driving past
A face of an outside like many of the other faces dwelling another's home
A face to stare at
A face that never grows old
A stranger's face found in my own
And why do I stare back?