He had read books with glossy covers and coveted titles. He had drawn nectar from the intellect that dripped on to the lower lip of his soul, so raw it seemed to be was his own liquidated form of matter. He said a silent prayer that evaporated his fears that had crippled him in a way that he was subjugated by his own being within the realms of the nooks and corners of all that summed up to be him. Just him.
He had a peculiar desire to paint what flowed on the threshold of his mind, but he knew sometimes the best is to surrender to the oblivion. He knew he could hold rapidity inside the fist of his obliging fingers but vastness was much beyond the amount of certainty that would fit into his gargantuan palm. The palm that was the hot sand of the Thar or Sahara and the vastness that was the face of mirage.
The veracity that haunts the prejudices of his own creation did not possess the potential to swallow the rigidity of his thought and that of his mind, as a whole. However, it could be detrimental to the surface he rests his head on after he is done wandering from land to land, from eliciting cacophonies to drawing melodies of sorts and orders.
He can look up the sky and wear it on his own bones in the way that the morning wouldn’t know and the moon wouldn’t complain. After all, what’s unreal is another form of just being real. Or is it?
He walks roads and climbs mountain, he might as well arrive, but the sane would no nothing of all that he is bringing so he is travelling. Revealing. Cascading. Not arriving.
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