Occupied by Parking ⇒ Kirno Sohochari

Parking, Banksy
 

Gif animation of Banksy’s Artwork “Parking”

 

The clock ticks are real but cycle of ticks is illusive. It reminds that I tangled by morning for have a good day, and occupied by evening to see bloodshed in a busy street or elsewhere of the world.
… … …

This breathing reality is not an illusion. My daily wordbook loaded by myriad rose buds. They are thorny, but not illusory. A thorny plant can budding with roses in spite of thorn. I started my morning with rosebud and tried to stay aromatic unto night. My desire of staying aromatic is not an illusion, albeit I’m not going to claim that it is reality, because reality could change in a sudden moment, where aromatic rosebud can vanish by minutes.

My wordbook loaded with myriad opposite; loaded by guns and roses. An aromatic morning soon replaced there by gunpowder. The odorous night abruptly can trembled by gunfire. They are deadly delusive, but it would not fair to say gun and gunpowder is not real.

Life loaded by myriad delusive reality. I start my day saying “Good morning” and ended at night to say “Good night”. Despite this, I know a wishful “Good morning” can be trembled by the rampant beats of unrest. The peaceful night-walk suddenly changed into nightmare. A famous poet once wrote, “When we two make love in deep midnight, like two clock ticks, /I know history wheels it ticks then, /to bombard Vietnam.”


My wordbook is not for mine. Yes, I write down the book but not the planner of these writing stuffs, this routine resonance of life. My life is not mine. Me the subject of routine surveillance, somebody watched me dawn to dusk.


I know my wordbook loaded with myriad clock tick. 6.00 am congrats me for “having a good day”, 10.00 am hurried me to push the sliding doors, 12.00 pm reminded me for lunch, 6.00 pm kicked out me in the street, 9.00 pm called me to dine and 12.00 am engraved me in the bed to call next 6.00 am. The clock ticks are real but cycle of ticks is illusive. It reminds that I tangled by morning for have a good day, and occupied by evening to see bloodshed in a busy street or elsewhere of the world.

OBI_19 (Banksy, Location- Unanmed)_1

Remember where you came from, Banksy

The daily wordbook is reality but filled with myriad intersected illusion. Morning pushed me to multiplied busy street. Traffic signal splits crowd there in many diversions. Thereby the crowd intersected by spiral division of life. Evening pushed me again to the multiplied street where traffic splits the crowd in one diversion and that is home. All roads go to the home at evening, but few still then remain there.

Suppose the street boy stayed in near pavement ignore the green traffic signal. He has no road to go. The old beggar yet in dark to his destination, and the lunatic yet not sure about the meaning of home. Lot is there remain with blurry eyes. The billboards and Street Art are staying unfixed and undefined to home. There is lot things in the street yet remain there, flashing the aim and pace of life without know nothing where to go at end of the day.

Wordbook of life means waves of ticks. Life waves by clock ticks, rotates by resonance and filled by myriad wishes to all. Resonance is a defect for life, because it repeats cliché wording where clock always ticks 6.00 am to wake and 12.00 am for parking. My wordbook is not for mine. Yes, I write down the book but not the planner of these writing stuffs, this routine resonance of life. My life is not mine. Me the subject of routine surveillance, somebody watched me dawn to dusk. Burdens ticks the day to fill the wordbook. It’s an easy game for anybody to trace me follows the book.

My wordbook is reality but it tells little about me. Round-a-clock tick fills me to come out in street and back to the home at rest, but is it me who back to the home. It perhaps the shadow-man who back home at 10.00 pm and engraved in bed at 12.00 am before wake for the next 12.


Despite this, I know a wishful “Good morning” can be trembled by the rampant beats of unrest. The peaceful night-walk can suddenly change into the nightmare. A famous poet once wrote, “When we two make love like the two clock ticks, /I know history wheels it ticks then, /to bombard Vietnam.”


I know life is a wordbook, delusive of shadows, and I the shadow-man, stayed here against my true desire to never back home again. I’m live here against my desire; live to repeat the cliché resonance of life; despite to know that I’m not able to park somewhere. Instead, I stayed here for an infinite cradling, in where landing zone obscured by myriad illusive reality.

Footnote: Dedicated to the Artwork of Banksy’s “Parking”. Readers, I have no intention to read or interpret the meaning of Banksy’s original artwork, instead, my wording is a mere representation of one’s Self-quest for the landing zone, if a landing zone least belongs in life today.

… I, the shadow-man, stayed here against my true desire to never back home again…

Street Art_25, Banksy, Parking_2

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