Everything that goes on in mind is with a purpose
Everything that goes on in the mind has got it’s own purpose.

If not in the present,
then remotely,
somewhere along in the future.
Everything that goes on in mind is with a purpose

Ascertain the same
Underline the cause,
then later on define the same.

Over a period of time it will be realized, understood, agreed and accepted that it’s not only intention that has got it’s role to play while getting things done, but also time is of vital importance.

Defintiely everything that goes on in mind has got it’s own way towards getting things done while in present.

Experience comes first
Expertise later
Once maturity is gained, then it defines the level and depth of experience that is gained with time.

Bottomline remains the same,
understand first,
then move ahead.

Over a period of time it will be realized that everything is not the same
A lot of things have changed in a lot many ways since efforts were made, not only in the direction of getting things done, but also with regards to doing the right thing at the right moment in time.
Thus everything that goes on in mind has got it’s purpose,
try to understand it first, once it’s understood then move ahead.

A few moments will always be spent in understading a stiuation, but then it’s worth the time that is spent, if it’s accepted that not only the same thing need not be done again, but also the same mistake must not be repeated again.

Once the cause is defined,
everything is established in mind, then move ahead.
One step at a time because it’s better late than never
Definitely slow and steady wins the race.

They asked us to write a poem
in class
I thought about my B2 yellow pencil
and the way it used to
move easily

It was like if my words
would flow submerged in a labyrinth
and come up to breathe now and then
to show off in front of my face
that I would never place them in paper again

I knew I had to find another source of thoughts
and I asked
I was told that they'd seen my poem
hidden in dead end streets and alleys
where most of the best stories
go to die

they told me that Vincent Van Gogh
used the street as his canvas
and that Nicholas Copernicus found his passion
within the streets of a starry sky

I found my poem
with a case of severe amnesia
lost in an alley
snooping between the leftovers
of the things that he once saw me living

He said he got lost
a few months ago
when he started to feel unwelcomed
around me

I convinced him to go back home
and fed him
and asked him to return to my hands
or at least
to let me place him in paper

But he decided to leave
he grew arms and legs
and kicked down my door
and he was gone again

I knew there that everything that comes back
never does it not even as remotely
as how it was

and I'm here thinking
why did he leave again?

I think he found his color and shape
in the streets
far
too faraway
from me