How often do you wish to dive into the celestial interstellar with limitless air, how often do you drag yourself into thinking of how a plant would survive in the black hole for that is the last little fertile land to hold soil?
Soil There are infinite possibilities of how deep can we dig and unearth the soil to displace someplace else. Why is there the migration? What isn’t satisfactory? You give it water and it’ll give you a plant. The plant ages to widen its roots. The roots break, the water breaks, the skin breaks, yet the mud manages to keep it intact.
Of all we had in our heads and toes, the poetic adrenaline cited out the fear, the fear of intuition, intrinsically getting narrower with our blood veins. If there was anything that could pull us out, got along with the streams to join the shallow sea mocking us without realising that its weeds are absorbing every bit of the impurities they possibly can. Wonder how we sat on the wet spirited sand giving it form, making the sound of waters more aesthetic, and ourselves aesthete. The bent mangroves losing it’s oils, and purity. Of all the nicest things around us, their purified versions set a path for us to embark upon, and nudge us to follow it exactly how we’ve wanted in our faculty of imagining.
Has it been reduced to a Springfield setting where you sip tea whilst witnessing the grandeur of sunsets and moon phases, and kissing the steam that rose from the porcelain or a potential old man developing a dalliance with his vintage books, his breath and the broken glasses that are sliding down his nose or just plain breathing. The notion of becoming independent is man’s ultimate fantasy or what we define as an idea with no basis in reality.
Reality? a rather failed concept.