Friday, February 26, 2010

To,The Master, with love.

Everybody salutes the rising sun.But it's not long before they look away and scurry to become the vulgar throng,sinking in their familiar, Sisyphean travails. But sometimes,as though,just to let you use words like,ethereal, regal,effervescent, and many others that leave the otherwise,condemned to oblivion lexicographers,gratified,a phenomenon happens.A phenomenon that rises,twenty years and counting.Rising as if there is no horizon on the other side,Rising, as if age is a myth, that catches up only with discard nature and the possible as an old,glorified, habit.
At the last milestone ever laid,where all others have stopped of concerns for breath and muscle tear,he looks as if he is just warming up.Having already assured at least two statisticians of their livelihood,he nevertheless,gallops on .We trudge far behind him, picking up the pebbles on which he trod,to collect,to help us believe in the far, unfortunate future.
For the effortless ease with he creates records,guards them and then destroys with nonchalance,he for an atheist(or otherwise!) is the closest to The Trinity.Not that such a veneration has not been proffered on him earlier,it just happens that he has held it long enough to make the distinctions between the tenor and the vehicle,in the metaphor,merely academic.When he often places those who watch him on cloud nines and seventh heavens,it'll be impudent on our part to try and gauge the height he is perched upon.The little master may well be the fabled little star that resembles the diamond in the sky.

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