He sat distressed over his relentless musings, like an author gone mad just before finishing what he intended to, trying to salvage the last shreds of a memory which was now a mirage, as if reclaiming the reams of burning pages from the smoke that had become of them. Everything surrounding him had begun to whirl into his head, which now was nothing but a black-hole, he gave himself in. There were only two things in the entire universe, it seemed, the black-hole that was his head, and the one around it, they stood in unison, like a pair of eyes, demarcated by an innocent void, the same heart which bore their torment.
Sapped as he felt, living the death, dying through life, he shut himself, behind anticipation, nay of dreams, neither nightmares, as they all lost their nub in the hogwash of his mind. He lay like a child laboring the burdens of adulthood, the trauma that keeps the heart beating, the demise that fills the undulations of lifeline, if only he knew love, the panacea to strip oneself of all expectations, baring self before self. All else , he felt, unless one knew how to cleanse oneself with the sin, was like molesting one's own conscience & turn into an eternal guilt. Time passed but the days remained.
Days, they had begun to look like the mysterious paintings, each framing a desire, embellished with both the unfamiliarity of remorse and intimacy of contentment. He was already struck by the agony of the hour, which would unite him with insularity, the room adorned with these paintings, stood lonely like a gasp, suddenly he was reminded of the impending auction. It was a moment replete with nothing, he knew it was to be bore alone, his cold hands pressed against the burning forehead. He knew how to fulfill his desires with emptiness.
He looked over the traverse, his eyes now a sodden portrait of his very face, buried under the mounds of forgetfulness. If his thoughts would ever return to do him any good, this was all he would ever ask of them, to make him go blind and paint darkness in the colors of silence. But what of the canvas? It must be in a solitary ferment, he self-consoled.
The sky in his eyes seemed to be an encumbrance, a bland patch sans a perspective, just a vantage to behold the failure to behold. The untoward stare left him brooding over the eyes, whose silent melody had his deaf perception dance to a rapture, the rapture lasted a blink, dreams trickled down as incessant drops, off a cliff of turmoil and into the pit of deference. The self addressed missives dashed off by a decoy, misplaced by incertitude, the loyal messenger.
He strived to fit himself into the embrace of desire, though it already fit into his denial, immaculately. The quest had taught him that if one feels lost, all one needs to understand is how not to understand at all, and turn graceful in being ensnared. His job was to resign, that was all he loved doing.
And he dropped his head, which again made him reminisce, the shoe-black's stalking gaze chasing the countless shoe-adorned feet, the imperial museum of glorious muck & dirt. He thought of the childhood times, when he used to saunter barefoot through the woods leading to the stream, along the way grass-blades, fallen leaves, bird droppings, cow-dung, petals, thorns all equally kissing and cuddling his soles, turning them into artistic relic. His toes twirled probingly, as he recalled the flair with which the warbling waves made love to his wounded feet.
He felt right in denigrating the eyes which are vainly eulogized at the expense of the unsung feet, which not only endured the trauma of onerous interference of eyes, but too regardlessly, lead him to embrace actual life. The humble unassuming feet without which eyes came off as baffled & shortsighted, locked away undecided, unresolved.
It was a revealing afternoon of a mystic Autumn, when the last rays of a gloomy sun woke him up. He looked through the dusty glass-pane, overt sky had become an unrestrained sob, clouds overburdened sighs, it started to rain, puddles once again came to life. Flames of amnesia had nothing to consume, smoke now turned into vapor, his quest condensed on the charred pages. He thought of another sky and another pair of lively feet, which relished to frolic in the puddles, his usually cold hands suddenly turning warm.