What do you call it? The steep chances of dilemma. Convulsive creatinin. Hypermetropia, ha ha!
It is better to deal with wide-angle watermarks and closet spaces. It has long been affairs of taking chances and calling it a day. Vaguely, those were blunt disturbances in the face of imminent well-being, thicker wads and thinner esteem. Of convincing others and dying out of self-pity. 'Yes, I, too, am here, though I don't know why I wanted to get here in the first place.'
I like finding myself with an octogenarian dealing with Sishir Bhaduri and his days with Rudraprasad. Of finding the blurred inks on a troubled postcard. Of helping with Calibre and Penguin exchanges. Of knowing people and getting words spread. In finding myself with the erudition of Passive Revolution, neo-liberalisation, Musalman-nama, Sirimavo Bandarnaike's troubles, chicken-fried-rice and mentions of pig's progeny, in the same space. Of counting grayed walls of stagnant souls of Sarat Bose Rd. In tensed faces and anguish semblances. On lighted stage with crass innuendos and brightest perversion. Of passing days and counting time. From a familiar cell number. "Dept."
You need proper ventilation to pour yourself out. You don't need to see the faces. You don't need to recognize names. Some smartphone glows and unnamed camaraderie. It's better to be in the dark, no one cares about your happiness, or why you are smiling in feverish melancholy, or profound detachment.
The glimmering pitch of roads will smile. The rains will shine. The winds will rush.
For this too shall pass.
In peaceful contentment.
__________________________
Turn the page. Unclear lenses. Rain in the city.
It is better to deal with wide-angle watermarks and closet spaces. It has long been affairs of taking chances and calling it a day. Vaguely, those were blunt disturbances in the face of imminent well-being, thicker wads and thinner esteem. Of convincing others and dying out of self-pity. 'Yes, I, too, am here, though I don't know why I wanted to get here in the first place.'
I like finding myself with an octogenarian dealing with Sishir Bhaduri and his days with Rudraprasad. Of finding the blurred inks on a troubled postcard. Of helping with Calibre and Penguin exchanges. Of knowing people and getting words spread. In finding myself with the erudition of Passive Revolution, neo-liberalisation, Musalman-nama, Sirimavo Bandarnaike's troubles, chicken-fried-rice and mentions of pig's progeny, in the same space. Of counting grayed walls of stagnant souls of Sarat Bose Rd. In tensed faces and anguish semblances. On lighted stage with crass innuendos and brightest perversion. Of passing days and counting time. From a familiar cell number. "Dept."
You need proper ventilation to pour yourself out. You don't need to see the faces. You don't need to recognize names. Some smartphone glows and unnamed camaraderie. It's better to be in the dark, no one cares about your happiness, or why you are smiling in feverish melancholy, or profound detachment.
The glimmering pitch of roads will smile. The rains will shine. The winds will rush.
For this too shall pass.
In peaceful contentment.
__________________________
Turn the page. Unclear lenses. Rain in the city.
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