How much time does it take for a bright day to turn dark? A moment. A moment is all it takes for the makeover. There is no intermediate stage. It happens with one overpowering blow. There comes dust, waste and darkness into the day. And it is night eternal.
This is how it happens. One word kindles the fury of emotions and buries all that is good. One word shovels away scattered joy from hearts terrain. Then sets the Sun so that Dark can rise.
Mighty, powerful thumps. Heart breaks- almost. Into the confusion of emotions rush the unwanted fears. Worst of them is insecurity. Still worse is possessiveness. They come as a legion and cover the red carpet laid for love.
Drained of all energy, then one would fall into the coffin to rest. Nothing would be clearer than the end- in both its senses. Death as a means and end. How poetic! How existential! How distantly philosophical!
The image that lingers over then would be of a blank canvas, white in colour with a cross stuck on it. Ready to be buried. Awaiting mud to be poured upon. Expecting decomposition from within. Perfect imagery of mortal life.
This is what I do best. Paint disappointment. The setting is the best when you do it on your own best day. Best portrayal on the best day. Perfect. But then there is this fear- of tomorrow. How will I shake off these dear blood sucking leeches when Sun rises tomorrow?
Hope. That's what I miss. Knowingly miss. Its not there, I know. And I know its not coming. Not a hint of it. So thats it. The promissory note is ready. That things are ending. In pretty much the way expected. From white to gray to dark to black to nothingness. To 'abhaava'. Non-existence. Bye.
This is how it happens. One word kindles the fury of emotions and buries all that is good. One word shovels away scattered joy from hearts terrain. Then sets the Sun so that Dark can rise.
Mighty, powerful thumps. Heart breaks- almost. Into the confusion of emotions rush the unwanted fears. Worst of them is insecurity. Still worse is possessiveness. They come as a legion and cover the red carpet laid for love.
Drained of all energy, then one would fall into the coffin to rest. Nothing would be clearer than the end- in both its senses. Death as a means and end. How poetic! How existential! How distantly philosophical!
The image that lingers over then would be of a blank canvas, white in colour with a cross stuck on it. Ready to be buried. Awaiting mud to be poured upon. Expecting decomposition from within. Perfect imagery of mortal life.
This is what I do best. Paint disappointment. The setting is the best when you do it on your own best day. Best portrayal on the best day. Perfect. But then there is this fear- of tomorrow. How will I shake off these dear blood sucking leeches when Sun rises tomorrow?
Hope. That's what I miss. Knowingly miss. Its not there, I know. And I know its not coming. Not a hint of it. So thats it. The promissory note is ready. That things are ending. In pretty much the way expected. From white to gray to dark to black to nothingness. To 'abhaava'. Non-existence. Bye.
No comments:
Post a Comment