Solitude in the crowd.

Perhaps like a million others, I am immensely fascinated by the Golden Gate Bridge.

Apart from it’s strong foundational architecture and unique color and form, there is always an eerie fog that surrounds and engulfs it, imparting a unique sense of splendor.

A mammoth structure, in hiding. Brilliance, without a propensity for vanity.

[The picture above was taken from Fort Baker, right across the bridge while driving from the city]



There was a monolithic structure that stood tall in the lonely land of Shavona. A structure built over time, a structure no one knows of, but the two little builders that looked upon it with eyes of glee and hearts filled with an irreplaceable satisfaction.

A satisfaction, so profound, yet unshared. There existed a sense of possessiveness in the containment of their shared happiness. Shared with none other but themselves.

A structure, the Talisman, that would stand testament to the togetherness of the builders and the collaborative patience, passion and dreams of the two. The two that the world wouldn’t care to notice. It was a grand loneliness in togetherness. The binding created by a mutual understanding of the thought that settling within the minutest niche satisfies more than the company of any eclectic or esoteric crowd on Earth.

Earth. A mass whose inhabitants know of an inevitable end. The end of races, of hatred, of lives, of Shavona.

As the inevitable law of this mass stood taller than the realm of control of our wondrous builders, the Talisman did eventually, one fine winter morning where the sun rose from the East, develop the tiniest crack, and then another, and then another through it’s core.

At times like these, when the settled state is shaken, when the Gods seem to be conspiring against, when the helplessness of the mortal being is exposed, there is nothing that our worker duo – the gleeful lady in red, the naive boy in blue – could do, but close their eyes, bring their hands together and breathe. Together, one last time.

An era ahead in time, the land of Shavona still breathes. As lonely in it’s existence as the skeletons of the buried. The only fragments of a recent history being the many broken pieces of the monolithic structure that once stood tall, built by the bare hands of the builders that tried.  The shining, beautiful, immovable, scattered pieces of the Talisman of yore, that together tell a story of the loneliest form of togetherness, the blissful power of formation borne out of pure human will, emotion and compassion.

Earth. A mass whose inhabitants know of an inevitable end. The end of races, of hatred, of lives, of Shavona. Yet, not of the audaciousness and power of the history of the combined human spirit.