The hard shits were unclear and it came as a volcano in my ass,
in yellow grass field of a distant land.
And just then I felt a terrible fear, a fear of loneliness.
I guess tranquility is the way of this world to tell you that it’s alright to be completely at the mercy of your own being,
it’s not poetry, it’s not music, it’s not the black and white melancholia,
it’s a ragged sky and a ragged soil and the survival instinct of a premature species.
I remember once I saw an interview of a filmmaker who was comparing isolation as the constant stares to bright lights…
you know you have the enlightenment to go clear but as soon as the light goes; it makes you blind…
it makes you a carcass of a dark pit.
I miss my windows and I miss those slow people in a slow alley and the sudden power cuts and above all those sounds of a floatation.
The confusion and a fascination of desires erupted as I wiped my ass with dry leaves,
I went on where the sea connects continents and forgets to whisper mutinies to wandering albatrosses.

…………………………………………………………….

Painting: Robert Bleackley.

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