The comfort of cotton
in the middle of a long voyage acts as an assurance of not losing control over
the scheme of things. You hold it tight to drive away the evil forces and use
it as a cloak with mystic magical powers to return to normalcy. But is the
damage already done? Is there anything that can stop it from undertaking
another peregrination? Moments are paintings which should be created not a tidy
house that needs to be prepared.
Words fought like
gladiators and only the ultimate warrior could walk out victorious from the
arena. But now they seem to have undertaken hibernation in the Arctic pleading
for a silent promise of never being asked to come back again to a world where
they are considered snobbish brats rather than magnanimous apostles.
The pair of black and
white that found a synchronous symphony when connected with their counterparts
now finds a nonchalant lesson on nihilism. The trance that was experienced in sitting
down on a rocky terrain to create a nexus with the alter ego now is nothing
more than an unwarranted spell which squanders the significance of the three
sticks on the wall.
A cuboid looks at you
with intent and an uncanny hypnotism, eventually succeeding to get all your attention. The indefatigable grit finds its true
nemesis. It refuses to bow down in defeat. But is truce each time any better?
The pages seem to turn back to a panorama of skyscrapers hanging in the air.
What was considered to be a talent that has to be nourished, is now a privilege
to be kept for spare time.
The need for a delicious win has overtaken the will to play with the knives to create euphony.
Symmetry as a bottom line is a profitable venture, but its sustainability will
always be under the lens.If intersection was always for the good, no building
would have gained an inch beyond the foundation.
The cotton has lost
its edge. Maybe we trained it for the wrong mission. If only it could look within!!
