Entry 1 :
(WC)
Temperature, science defines, is actually the effect. It is our senses that dictate what perception we attach to any inanimate entity. Like charcoal embers. Winds from North. Yellow lime. Sun.
Senses are dimmed. Sounds are faint. Specks of light dance on wild LSD trips. Shimmers are abound. Have you ever felt the receding shrill of chaos as you move deep down the palpable void of thickening darkness? A faint glow circle the iris, you will see. you will feel a rush unlike any of those that you have left in the past decades. It is by the strike of irreversible fate that losers share the burden of actions and consequences. But a better way is to lose out in the infinite expanse. And then, if you look above, you will find yourself circling a trance of fading luminescence. A warm embrace, a drowning pleasure, temporal grips across fervid skin. Blue, take me home, into your abyss.
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Entry 2 :
"How are you?"
In what has been yet another indistinguishable span of eleven hours from the perennial cycle of brutal monotony and flash coffee-breaks, which are the only rewards of amassing aimlessly for materialistic impossibilities societal desires and likewise, Vesper had, yet again, successfully managed to veil her ambitions of sifting apart those loose strands that wildly play on his forehead. If memory serves V right, she has found herself yet again in the same, ostensibly paralyzing space. Confines, four walls. And then she hypnotically switches on the pale blue dim that slender nightlamps with ornate designs from the forgotten Ming period, brings.
A wonderful knitwork, one understands - streams of darkness and feeble darts of scant illumination. Almost dark, just a few sprinkles of diminutive hue. Like those softer vestiges of objectivity and annoyance. There is a narrow causeway that connects grey polished concrete pavements and the muddy wasteland where daisies bloom. White were the wrinkles that appeared when accosted about the probable direction. The answer was not magical but definitely had a better smudge of beige than those ribbons V ties around her waist in moods of playfulness, or in fresh autumnal breezes, or seeing the crazy diamond of a lunatic waltzing downtown. V definitely senses the infernal crimson halo emanating from the distant skytower by the sea, which braves the rolling winds and screaming Prometheus to let her know it is still out there. Suddenly, she jumps out of her delusion when trouble in the form of approaching deadlines permeated her thoughts. Scribbles and aligned texts packed in carefully segregated columns on papers tucked inside brown files and miniature directories, along with yellow thank-you notes and pinkslips. On other days she would have straightaway jumped into the conclusion that those slimy pastries with green cream flakes are bad for vision, global reverence for satires is unfounded and Joan Baez sucks. Not in that order of priority, but almost close. V would also have, by now, rummaged her entire collection of dry utterances that she bestows on infrequent admirers, yet failing to describe the deepest mauve that hangs on the nocturne of these hours. Same again. She has almost quite forgotten how peaches and cranberries taste. Back in those days spent on Algerian vineyards, she would stick out her tongue as much as it would permit, to see if her upper palate had a similar tinge, with the vigilant terrier cooling himself in the same way. You should have never asked who mimicked whom. But then again, both of them lost love apiece.
No one sings her lullabies and no one tells her to close her eyes. A photoframe, on which dust is more prominent than the etchings, is all that describes her love for Matisses and Monets. It ached her to venture forth and draw in the curtains. It is a flurry of noise. Blitzkrieg of digital patterns, as they used to play on detuned visual projections. Weren't they a better fodder to imagination than Uncle Scrooge's slapstick? It is a torrent now, almost unstoppable. Vintage Kafka, with its polychromatic bookmark and many ancient pages and wisdom, knows for sure it would one day be picked up with great care, mostly desperation. Maybe, not today.
Vesper tightens her grip and scrambles for the loose ends. The slender nightlamps with ornate designs from the forgotten Ming period asks again. V thinks what she heard was her voice screaming in muted passion, "I am warm."
