Pass the Loin, the Stolen Pursues

I’ve been stalling myself, like succumbing to the minimal needs I try to make myself comfortable in. It fuels. It charges. It triggers. It releases. Something inside caves in. The change persists, recognising I have a persistent push to trigger the vacancy to find some attire to don. The new question that still enquires me to push through the same is the absolute lethargy that comes from doing nothing.

While I lay flat over the bed, mind flips to chance, adjusting itself to its own patience and comfort. The nakedness that drives the mind to endeavour into the milestones to unravel a deep seated fear is boggling. Of course, there are roads that must be taken and a life lead, as a conundrum sewing itself, clearing the patches, to solve sanity. But beyond the usual lies a place, or rather a state of mind that checks into the very soul of stranded. In effect it calls out and the hearer can find his place a ragged comfort to which he draws his own conclusions.

To jet out the answer to every query dissolves meaning and with it the quest of life finds another stepping stone where the deplored angsts against his own uncertainty. The find fakes. The deterred leads astray. Such sour strangeness detracts a beauty into misreading itself. It burns and seizes life by the throat. Then it finds reasons to break the bones. The results retard any inquiry. The suggestions pour into the sudden stop, streaming a helm that retracts the happiness.

Breath makes for a break that blurs the line when life states its own gutted intestines. Before any could be surrounded by a sphere to deliver and hound forever, the finish intends to drop satire and make for a week of extravagance. It proceeds in like a stealth and the enigma of its recurrence is not a secret. Everyone can find peace in the meantime it speaks out itself by delivering pure silence. The storm, one may speak. But it is more like a vacancy created to usurp the tenderness of stealing wolves.

However may the heart speak of sorrows, the magnetic makeover decides on by keeping sanity stretched. It needs to flower the death. Life needs unfurling of the mast. Secrets can wait. The staggered can wail a triumph.

 

© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2017-2018

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