I was walking away again, fear of the denial lifting away to show the world my contorted and bemused expression lilting like a russet oil lamp in my bare yellow fields as they lay cheated by the harvest bird. The russet lamp, with its familiar flame of the household intensity- a reflection of the common fear, the only leading light purged of sins, unquestioned in its camaraderie with most village folk. Village folk I say, folk like us, many like me at least, caught in an ephemeral stupor of residence within sun burnt, ochre mud walls, when our bellies best our expectations once in a while, when we take centre stage around nowhere- a land tilled with periodic, maybe annual expectation, and in the perfect slenderness of the night- of women and tiredness...an ephemeral stupor we remain caught in...With what I would suppose to be a squalid consent too intangible to see in our mind's eye.
Then to the village folk, into the village fold of simplicity ubiquitous mostly in its unrelenting and indomitable way; the nature’s disparaging bard writes an elegiac note in his book of a million unknown and unnamed destinies. What then? With a drought so dry that grass turns to crumpled parchment...yellow and forgotten for pampered paddies that like sombre infants threatening to give up their ghosts; with women and their cracking mahogany-like feet under a slow mournful hearth, as they seek water from the tears of the mother’s eyes- sunk so low that they must shovel the layers of elapsing dust and debris of human enterprise attempted on her face. What then? The village folk ask, when their insignificant and simple dream...a dream they were born into...meets the ink of this astral bard who views them through a celestial and coalescing lens tinged with his mescaline humour. What when a man alone...suffers from the reason of his collective existence, whilst the tepid tapestries of joy which he weaves wrap tightly around him...inwards and suffocating his inert existence. What happens when a man, satiated with the finite knowledge of his parallel reality forming in a relatively infinite continuum so that his entire life might be but an ephemeral vision slowed down for average comprehension, is faced with the possibility of confronting an untendered universal argument (that seems to him at least to only confront him for no provocation on his part) in his lifetime? An argument so profound in thought yet so raw in fact that it remains but a banal and impassive transition towards the layered attrition of his thought. The answer really is simple. The man walks away, with a fear of denial lifting away to confront him with both logic and emotion...an argument he can never win because to overpower one of the two in thought...is to defeat the other in his tapestry woven into ties....or so his mind has learnt. So the man slowly walks away...I too walk away.
Then to the village folk, into the village fold of simplicity ubiquitous mostly in its unrelenting and indomitable way; the nature’s disparaging bard writes an elegiac note in his book of a million unknown and unnamed destinies. What then? With a drought so dry that grass turns to crumpled parchment...yellow and forgotten for pampered paddies that like sombre infants threatening to give up their ghosts; with women and their cracking mahogany-like feet under a slow mournful hearth, as they seek water from the tears of the mother’s eyes- sunk so low that they must shovel the layers of elapsing dust and debris of human enterprise attempted on her face. What then? The village folk ask, when their insignificant and simple dream...a dream they were born into...meets the ink of this astral bard who views them through a celestial and coalescing lens tinged with his mescaline humour. What when a man alone...suffers from the reason of his collective existence, whilst the tepid tapestries of joy which he weaves wrap tightly around him...inwards and suffocating his inert existence. What happens when a man, satiated with the finite knowledge of his parallel reality forming in a relatively infinite continuum so that his entire life might be but an ephemeral vision slowed down for average comprehension, is faced with the possibility of confronting an untendered universal argument (that seems to him at least to only confront him for no provocation on his part) in his lifetime? An argument so profound in thought yet so raw in fact that it remains but a banal and impassive transition towards the layered attrition of his thought. The answer really is simple. The man walks away, with a fear of denial lifting away to confront him with both logic and emotion...an argument he can never win because to overpower one of the two in thought...is to defeat the other in his tapestry woven into ties....or so his mind has learnt. So the man slowly walks away...I too walk away.
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