Solitude to me came unannounced.
And when it hit me hard, little fragments of me lay all over – trying to crawl back – and then grow wings and fly. While so, I realized solitude gushes in the readiness to perceive sensations of the undifferentiated, elementary consciousness.
The quiescence in the lull of my inky room exhorted helplessly. I would have turned a deaf ear, but I needed someone to talk to. The clock ticked. And staring me in the eye, stole away the dream I had woken up with. I would have fought time, but there is no contending the connivance of the clockwork universe. It tears me apart.
The wind blew the curtains and let in the chaotic sounds of the city, seething with activity. An array of beams made my inky room blush, while the shimmering drops of sun made their way and settled on the coarse, grey surfaces. My dream lingers. Basking in its beauty, I let it consume me. What I wouldn’t do to spiral in and lose in it again!
In a corner lies a paintbrush and colours, calling me to mix them up in a mélange of hues. I heed to their cogent reasons. Out comes a dusty sheet. Plumes of white smoke go up the ceiling, dance with the sunbeams and evanesce. The paintbrush is capricious, but I bend it. It screeches… the paper chafes... I breathe – and the sounds echo.
In a tiny supernova of sorts, the acrylic scatters like ice from a spoon and suffuses the paper. My hands feel numb. The winds carry a chill. The sounds of the city fade. The beams retract, and the little drops of sun vaporize.
…and when I’m done, I hate myself at my inability to draw me a pretty picture. At my inability to paint it all right. The sound of the clock is unceasingly chaotic. True, there is no contending the connivance of the clockwork universe, but my dreams are mine alone… and I spiral in and lose myself again…
