Everything is meaningful except the feeling that you’re not coming here by your own choice.
Life’s poetic when the daredevil boys climb on the coconut tree to fetch the meaning of life. Life lost the poet when the same daredevil boys getting old and climb on the wisdom-tree to fetch the meaning of life.
An accident just happened on the busy street. A lorry driver slides over the bridge by loaded watermelons. The reddened fruits split on the street to remind me the memories of birth. I was coming into the earth in late afternoon. Silence seized the busy street when my mother delivers me onto the bed. She delivers a bloodstained offspring in her nest, who was crying a lot after coming here.
I was crying and felt cold. The midwife wrapped me in a blanket; when she did this, everything was silent except the noisy gunfire. It was coming from the lorry, loaded by the gunshots dead bodies. The lorry driver suddenly slides over the bridge with bloodstained dead bodies. They were just like the scattered watermelons, -split, sprinkled and ruptured.
I was crying to felt cold on the moment and the ruptured red fruits on the street were waits for the next phase to nibble by somebody. We come here to serve the desire of hunger. Everybody in this world sucks, chew, bites or eats someone. I was crying for cold and equally crying to suck the milky bun of my mother. The dutiful vultures on the street were nibbling the bloodstained corpses to satisfy the hunger.
Today’s reddened watermelons take me back to the threatening silence of my birth. I was born under the ruthless gunfire, sudden air raids and the bloodbath street, -trolled by the gang of vultures. This beautiful world welcomed me by the loaded fighter jet and nibbling vultures.
The ruptured watermelons on the busy street remind me again the facts, -life’s meaningfully accidental and could be meaninglessly slides, splits and sprinkled on the street at any time by the war-manic lorry driver.
When everything’s peaceful and silent, everything goes and rotates to the ticks of dutiful watch, when everything circulates the latest news that everybody has peacefully protected or under controlled, and the flying kites circling on the giant blue screen underneath the sweet winter sunlight, I’m getting nervous. My sharp eyelash wavering to hear the warning bell of a lunatic that everything will go messy soon after the flying kites landing on the ground to catch the victims.
Sometime chaos is indispensable to realize that you’re in life.
Everything looks harmonious to the distance. The dimming stars on garish sky looks tunable to my window. We have millions mile distance but strangely harmonic to the beauty of life. The hilly river looks sonorous from the window. We have remote distance and assimilate to the harmony of life. The deep green tea garden looks methodical to the distance. Both we have orderly harmonized to the gleeful life. The seashore and tamarisk forest looks quiet and calm to the window. We have Arcadian harmony in life.
Everything’s melodious to the distance. My pretty neighbor’s pregnant since from the embryonic days. The whirling fetus in her womb looks coherent to my window. We two have fairly conducted to the muse of life. The street beggar looks harmonious to the window. We have difference a lot but weirdly empathetic to the marvel of life. Everything’s homologous to the distance. The nebulous clouds, tainted moon, fervid sunshine, torrential rainfall, crazy monsoon wind and the decadent people’s face… all’s symmetrical to the safe distance.
Everything has symmetry to the other. The unseen quanta and mystic dark energies are flowing every day to the window. These tiny unseen is symmetrical to the building block of life despite the difference and be the distance.
Distance is exigent to keep the feeling that everything’s here conducts for harmony if we keep the safe distance to them, but when we get close a silent contraction break the rules of game.
I realized the truth again to touch your silent beauties on a dead old photograph. It was dwindled and just crashed to the moment I picked it to the wall. It would perhaps better if I not picked.
Everything’s dwindling here to break the distance and getting close again. Your bright juvenile-face looks pale to the distance of time. Your dwindled face and the dimming stars have harmony despite the distance. Both of you now dwindling and getting closer to birth the chaos by breaking the melodious harmonica.
“Birth is not on your hands but death could be. Your lifeline depends on your will. Anybody can easily draw the end line if he thinks to end the game at any cost.” -my longtime friend told me by strikes the paperweight on the table.
“Yeah, you’re right, but to kill your own doesn’t solve the puzzle that, -what after next. Nothing’s in your hand except the reason that you have to reasoning the game at any cost.” -I told him to stop the spinning paperweight to my finger.
Photo Credit: boston.com; ck–art.deviantart.com; ufunk; etsy.com; moonipulations.com (Photography: Hengki Lee); kaz-d.deviantart.com;