Every time I read your mildewed dream, it gives me an inane urge to seek shelter in my own voracity of nuances. Though mostly, I cannot tell the urge apart, from the suppressed ceremoniousness that needs invoking to imperceptibly quieten that melancholic whisper. Or the one to weep silent tears for the loss of that vague feeling that I could never completely fathom, but inevitably always left behind familiar wisps. They blend into one another so seamlessly, that it'd take even you eons perhaps, to merely notice its reticent demeanour.
The tenacity of fragility. And our inane efforts, ever so subtle ones. Many regrets later, the palpable scaffold gives way. There's no dam that breaks, no subliminal conspiracy that metaphorically or otherwise, sinews sensation. But alas! the lack of it.
PS: Then, I go back to present-moment-sanctimonious-sensibility and tell myself to beckon both my angels and demons back home.
But alas! The lack of it! :-)
ReplyDeletetch! that. :)
DeleteThat. And, that that has been the fire that never crackled. Even in the winter of our discontent.
ReplyDeleteThe winter of our discontent eh!
DeleteThe fire only cozened the angels into the myth of sanctity darling, as the ancient Ouroboros forever fed off its tail.
Have we not been brought up on myths, then?! I rather suspect the cozening of angels, by fire, to be a Promethean hoax, created to wax the futility of the very existence of those for whom the clay grew tall!
ReplyDeleteSurely, the ancient Ouroboros only coil around our existential convenience, to the last syllable of a gleeful acceptance of absurdity!
shukh-byakulawta bolley hoy toh khanik-ta bojhano jaay.
Myths and myriad tales. Words and wailings of the heart - they have their own existential conveniences - ones that frequently leave you wandering.
ReplyDeleteSometimes, those gems of cognizance that you chance upon while rummaging through the omnipresent, unceremonious debris, annihilate all the self-conditioned notions of futility.
And yet again, the ancient Ouroboros.
Interesting frayed figments of fragility. Life. And the likes. :)
Of course, life. And the likes.
ReplyDeleteFutility is overrated. There are viler things that the mirror can tell. Profile from reflection and, to quote you, the likes :-)
Ah!
ReplyDeleteMirror, mirror, on the wall
Who is the darkest of them all?
Surely, some charming prick other than the adorable Mr Riddle?
ReplyDelete'Twas a damsel in distress, love. The root of all riddles. ;)
DeleteAha! Here's to the burning bridge, then.
ReplyDeleteI've forever raised mine, to the pet toad called Prince Charming, hence.
DeleteTo toast, or not to toast? :-)
Delete