Ajay Name Quotes

The shops in High Street still have their metal grilles down, blank-eyed and sleeping. My name is scrawled across them all. I'm outside Ajay's newsagent's. I'm on the expensive shutters of the health food store. I'm massive on Handie's furniture shop, King's Chicken Joint and the Barbecue Cafe. I thread the pavement outside the bank and all the way to Mothercare. I've possessed the road and am a glistening circle at the roundabout.

Religion is not intrinsic to humans. No child is ever born in this world, even from a fundamentalist family, displaying any trace of religion anywhere on its body or mind. However, after each birth, society tattoos the name of its religion on child’s forehead and inside. Society moulds its new generations into the belief system it follows. Each child acquires the knowledge of its religion through teachings of its parents, priests and peers.

Orion's Question and the Breath of Frost' . . Tonight, the horizon folds into itself, an old envelope sealed with frost. The earth leans ever so slightly, tilting its tired shoulder toward the sun as if apologizing for the distance. Above, Cassiopeia sprawls, half-reclining, her jeweled wrists dripping with the cold light of stars that have died a thousand times since we first gave them names. Her gaze cuts through the dark, dismissive and haunted all at once—what does she know that I do not? I stood beneath the canopy of brittle air, the breath of a wind too faint to matter pressing against my ear. The stillness of the season lodged itself deep, threading through marrow and thought alike. A single crow flew low across the yard, its wings shearing the quiet, and I realized this silence was not still, not empty. It swelled, pressed, expanded—an ache without center, scattering itself like seeds into the pit of me. For a moment, I thought I heard it—a hum, soft and glacial, as if the world itself were breathing from a great, aching hollow. I looked up and imagined Orion not as hunter but witness, the burning points of his form arranged into questions I could never answer. When I turned back toward the house, frost had etched a secret on the windowpane, its meaning almost within reach but blurred, as though by a single trembling hand.

Orion's Question and the Breath of Frost' . . Tonight, the horizon folds into itself, an old envelope sealed with frost. The earth leans ever so slightly, tilting its tired shoulder toward the sun as if apologizing for the distance. Above, Cassiopeia sprawls, half-reclining, her jeweled wrists dripping with the cold light of stars that have died a thousand times since we first gave them names. Her gaze cuts through the dark, dismissive and haunted all at once... What does she know that I do not!? I stood beneath the canopy of brittle air, the breath of a wind too muffled to matter pressing against my ear. The quietude of the season lodged itself deep, threading through marrow and thought alike. Somewhere distant, the faint call of an owl spilled across the night, shearing the imperturbable, and I realized this lull was not still, not empty. It swelled, pressed, expanded... an ache without center, scattering itself like seeds into the pit of me. For a moment, I thought I heard it... a hum, soft and glacial, as if the world itself were breathing from a great, aching hollow. I looked up and imagined Orion not as hunter but witness, the burning points of his form arranged into questions I could never answer. When I turned back toward the house, frost had etched a secret on the windowpane, its meaning almost within reach but blurred, as though by a single trembling hand.

We vanish. That may be the kismet of the body. But we leave imprints. That may be the proof we were ever here. Time forgets us. That may be its duty. But we remember each other. That may be our defiance. The world moves on. That may be its nature. But we love, we lose, we long. That may be what makes it worth watching. We break. That may be the cost of living. But we mend. That may be the reason we keep going. Nothing lasts. That may be the rule. But we carve our names into cursory moments. That may be enough.

The Mercy of Not Knowing..!! . . There is a holiness in not understanding. We spend our lives trying to name the stars, to fix the pulse of the world under some measurable unit of wonder. But maybe the miracle was never in the naming, only in the astonishment.. Existence, I think, is not a puzzle to be solved, but a tension to be held... between what breaks us and what binds us... what vanishes and what insists on returning. There is no explanation that can soften this, only attention. Fierce, unflinching attention. Not to meaning, but to presence. We yearn. We ache for significance. But perhaps it is more sacred to ask nothing of the world, and still love it. To kneel in the rawness of it all and say: I see you. I won’t try to fix you into something bearable. Wonder, then, is not a refuge from pain. It is a decision to stay awake.