It begins so in disguise : I would be craving to be a winter green which otherwise does not exist. A vague sense of togetherness with loneliness; Words seldom reflect what they mean. a sense of mystery prevails in nature. May be its labour in its beauty and its expressionless that constitute aesthetics.
Why do I diverge from myself ? Irrespective of being deeply reflective and introspective, I tend to complicate the incompleteness.
An authoritative, impulsive behaviour pervaded all my senses. Inspite of this aversion to all personal, territorial attachments and knots , I tend to melt into dreams and desires all the times.
An interrupting question; why do we like to reflect on water bodies just as streams of consciousness? Is it the primordial remembrance - the lose of a perennial abode? Or a prophetic sense of last resort in times of annihilation and apocalypse ...!
Never know for sure. Porous lungs and fragmented nerves burn at ease. Ashes cannot reclaim the flames; yet they can recollect the pebbles that were pearls once and for all.
Is poetry addictive or withering ? Not sure again. It has a thrust of imminent cognizance and warping senders of time.
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