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A failed poem I am.
Simple, yet complicated.
The more I untwist,
The more it goes winding on its curve,
the rope of life, by which I hang.
…Yet I hang. Till I fall.
Fall everyday.
Hurt, bruise, tire, yet hang on.
And wonder why.
What for.
Even after all the undoing,
it would come to the same point.
Fall why dont I? Fallllllllllllllll !!

~ Purvi Petal, © May 24, 2011

roped Capture

 

 

 

 

 

 

P.S.  : I wanted an image where a woman is unwinding like a rope does, opening itself, emerging from the rope is a woman, hands held up like its two strands, spinning as it untwists. However I got this one. The pic above is taken from LA MANŒUVRE: MUE. There’s a scene in Mue where a woman with a mask on the back of her head—a mask with shoulder-length hair that obscures her ordinary face—climbs a rope, straddles and inverts and turns. There’s a life inside, there to be glimpsed.

 

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