Party of One

It falls out of place perhaps when you have had too much talk with yourself and suffering from a loneliness that can’t be peopled out. It is when thoughts turn into whirlwinds. Some mild, some loud. Some to glorify the essence of life, some enough to consider ending it. Thoughts are a bitch. Guiding everything. If I were inside of my brain, I was sure to throw up. But then, just prior to the point of exhaustion, just before submission and giving in, it all turns beautiful. Just like truth.

They are all around me. They have surrounded my helpless senses under the veil of refining them. They are playing games. They are spineless, little impostors. They are making me talk and walk, love and hate. They compel me to trust them, walk alongside them, ask them of preposterous unearthly favours.

I want her to love me back.

I want myself to be happy.

I want everything fair.

 

They are not enough to accompany me. They scream when it’s silent around the ears. In tedious, unflinching repetition:

What’s yours must be little, insufficient.

 

It’s as if I find myself sitting at the centre. Silent in the middle of a throbbing party. There’s music playing. Creating waves, lashing against the walls of dull stony cage. Waters that are warm. Thoughts that can dance.
And then, if not thoughts, what are you left with?

In flashes like those of a lighthouse upon a bleak expanse of waters, before the silent awake soul, it suddenly bemuses you by being beautiful. By glowing in a fearful radiance. Like it’s all true! Like one too can make an eternal party! Like the tears of happiness and sorrow, they all count (even the ones swallowed down)! Like the world is a faraway place, made of stone and wood with Life filling its holes, emanating a fragrance. Where nothing must make sense for everything to be of sense.

And we must be lonely.

Subham Basak

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ORIGINAL ARTWORK // Thoughts Leafing // 40 by dirissigmundsdottir

The Infinite Mystery

To continue living– in a world sometimes dark by the drop of sun and sometimes bright, sometimes windy, sometimes cold or sultry, and to hover and saunter again and again in the search of happiness, fellow people, friends, acceptance; to think that in The End nothing counts, nothing matters, neither sorrows nor joy, and it is that End we are heading towards and yet can’t dash; to think of the uselessness of days, months and years, of building connections and castles but not ever possess Anything to take away; to consider Possessions and Power are but a social concept, made in the illusion of making a short stay worthwhile, I wonder– Where’s Some Rational Meaning In Life, or even Is There Its Need? What’s Hope? And Where does It Ultimately Lead Us? Are we not All Misguided? Misplaced? Are We Not To Elaborate To Be Accidents? Are We Different From Apples On A Tree? Or Are We a Little Too Dull To Solve Our Own Mystery?

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Poor Parades

He was running about, in the narrow passages of the busy streets like electricity through thin copper. He was out of breath. With hope. With a world within him resistant to damage, gritty in lonely convictions. That was his only struggle. Digging oases in a crowded desert. Incorruptible. Hence, alone.

He hoped that an encounter with Beauty will obliterate the Hunger in his stomach.

Today, his goal was to catch the Parade. The sense of orderliness in the March, the Music in the gunshots, the Hope in the Tricolour.

Happy Republic Day

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