The Shawshank Redemption

On my way home after a TAT meeting I watched the movie The Shawshank Redemption on the plane (great movie by the way). I don’t know if I’m just obsessively projecting relevancy for the search of Truth unto everything I come across, but it sure did strike a cord. After it was over I wrote the below lines as an attempt to capture the feeling it evoked:

I have a hope, a faint hope of Freedom beyond imagination,
and no matter how hopeless my staggering in the dark seems,
no matter how impossible, overwhelming and beyond reach the goal appears to be,
I can always take one more step, one more step towards Freedom,
and maybe, just maybe, one day a step I take will lead to Freedom itself…


Motivations lie scattered
like so many supporting sticks
in the cellar of an old house
held up by twigs.
To keep the house upright
is to work without rest,
here a little, there a little,
like spinning plates.
Work is driven by
fearful creaks and groans,
and proud dreams of
ornate mansions.
But here in the cellar floor
is a door unopened.
Its ancient wood planks
smell of childhood days
playfully lost amongst
sunlit trees on
timeless summer afternoons.
The occasional splash heard
against its unseen side
recalls crisp ocean air
blown across the bright
deck of a sailboat
free at sea.
If only such a door
could lead back to
that place of endless wonder.
But no time now to
explore this door’s depths,
for the house threatens
to crumble at the
slightest quiver or breeze.
How much longer can this
tiring and tedious
work continue before you
Peek beneath the
hidden door at the
base of your rotting house,
To face the inevitable
and find out what
Power really keeps
this houseboat afloat?

The Tired Mind

A new message dropped down the long chute from the Unknown, one of several just like it. One of the tireless busy-men running about the place opened it and read it off: “Itch! Back of head.” He walked from the chutes over to the big machine at the center of the room and dropped the message into a slot at the top. It was a miracle that this big hunk of machinery worked at all. It had a tangled shape to it, too wrapped around itself for any onlooker to figure out how it worked. It shook furiously, spewing steam, oil, and the occasional expletive as it processed the new message. Finally, just as it seemed like the thing would explode, it suddenly stopped with a ding and popped out its verdict. “Lift right arm. Scratch itch with finger. Don’t bump into guy on right,” the last bit a reference to an earlier incoming message about an irritable fellow apparently to the right somewhere “out there”. If one looked closely enough down at the bottom of this output directive, there was another message in small print: “…but I’d really like to go Home now.” These little messages had been showing up a lot recently, stuck down in the corner of the directives spewed out from the worn out old machine. “Turn left at next light…but I’d really like to go Home now.” “Walk to kitchen. Get glass of water…but I’d really like to go Home now.” “Keep up appearance of being professional and capable…but I’d really like to go Home now.”