Sunday, November 2, 2014

For You. My Adored Fragments.




All at once the hazes, shadows and silhouettes became tangible bodies. An abstraction of conversations, brief flickers and surreal telepathy turned into real voices, nuances, corporeal inflections, juxtapositions. 

We became palpable. A diffusion of clouds brought together - condensed to a rain, a storm – a downpour of emotions. 

We became the ephemeral limbs and blooms of an ancient rhizome. Sprout from the same essence, wrought from the same gem, molecules of the same ether and verses of the same requiem.

My unfurls and my concaves were loved, in turn I too fell in love with a certain giggle, a jiggle, a certain glisten of a lash, an endearing smell of a delectable book, a dazzling shyness, an imperceptible act of kindness.
Life returned and raptured.

But it was over too soon. We all parted like dismantled delicate parts of a clockwork bird being packed away, wheel by wheel, feather by feather.
Soon only the memory will exist, in its own timelessness - sun, shades and shimmers. And I shall find despairing resonances and reflections in the afterwords, afterthoughts and aftertastes.


Photo Courtesy: http://fairycastle.tumblr.com/

Descent


My head is a garden gone to seed; my eyes are curtained windows of an abandoned house. If you stare too long you might see vague shadows move, and sometimes doubting your own sanity, you see an almost-face, a figure peering out, stir of indigo echoes in the cobwebbed stairs, a flutter. 
Losing one's mind is a cliché, these days, what with the grimy urban chaos, the seamless integration of communication through internet, it’s easy to imagine and portray a carefully edited, instagrammed madness. Artistic blurs, a gently fading line of ellipses in Fertigo or Garamond, hair becoming expressions of wildness, sensuality, tragedy, objects becoming disturbing and despairing metaphors.
A profile picture becomes a limpid mirror reflecting a person's splintered inner cosmos; a single status update shatters you with its deafening silence. Pain becomes crystal violins under your skin effusing searing light.
We are unconsciously trying to get attention, perhaps. I am not denying that. But it is more of a documentation of our stream of consciousness, the terrible and oddly euphoric incoherency that is building up inside each one of us out here. Articulated anguish. The cacophony rising in our bones. The wing rustles of insomnia's mocking angels.
This is a systematic filing of my descent into madness, melancholy or something else. Slowly verging onto a temptingly nebulous brink. 


Image: Cathedral Vegetal by Remedios Varo