Dreams are not the smooth lubricants of living, rather are
the chilling downy flakes in the warmth of cozy life. They push you outside in
scanty garments and let you feel the coldness to its extent. Endurance becomes
the habit, as a result, no matter you become a Sisyphus. Aspirations, hopes and
wishes are injected in to the balloon of life with the straw of dreams, the
duly painful medium.
Cactus pricks sharp, and so do the dreams but it lasts long
like the toxic alcohol affecting for few more days with uneasy hangover. Hour by
hour, the venomous intoxication grips the smooth breathing and strangles the
life, pushing into a crevasse of freezing rivulets. Lace your boots and do
donning, otherwise the current perishes you, dragging helplessly far away, beyond
the scenario of present and profit. The clumsy preparations and overlooked
periods become the Achilles’ heel, the root to immediate loss.
These days dreams have been less in volume, the substantial quality
has been withered. A dark alley just opens up like an unprecedented avenue of
drowning hopes, the scary echoes reverberate the alley walls, of the haunting
past. Condominium persists and makes confusion with hallucination – the morbid dreams.
Those dreams, along the striking sunbeams, as the dews
relief with last breaths, before the birds leave the nicely knit nest, like the
crystals of pearls and sparkles of precious diamonds, approach. The overwhelming
pleasure beams in the mind along their genteel footsteps. Finely arranged carpets
of hope enjoy the gracious gait of the glorious and gay dreams. The being celebrates
the profound pleasure of those rainbow – the spectrum of colorful dreams. They disturb
the fine and calm morning sleep with discomforting restlessness. Mind swirls
and hurls around in an uneven speed, tossing with the sharp realities. The more
the dreams (pathetic and poor?) collide with the dreary deserts of hopeless
topography, the malicious infection affects that colorful array. Tapestry loses
the lines and the abstract existence of the dreams appears sickening, awful and
rueful. Ingenious beauty converts into ingenuous ugliness. Shopestication thwarts.
Bare black bricks beautify the bleakness. What else rewarding more than morbid
dreams? The last resort, hope, remains the bizarre panacea. Yonder it resides. The
exhausting enclosure stay of hope has painted its brow pallid.
The back pack of courage must adjust hope inside it
otherwise the lofty journey abruptly ends in between, ending the both ways:
neither marching back nor pushing ahead. Stagnation. For ages the panacea has
been exposed in a sufficient amount as per the need but the later temporal
graph includes it in dim lines; the pale presence. Panacea is not reliable, my
dear. The torn pages and broken pens all need a skill to patch up and scribble
on. What else bounces back, except the withering panacea?
How can one recruit the escaped dreams? The alchemy is of no
use; the pallid panacea is ineffective. Shrunken time and exasperating context has
to dilute the eternal medicine. No way out. Has to enable the lost potentiality
of catholicon. It gets enlivened from its own promising power, a dab of hope
sustains. This remains the pen-ultimate resolution, apart from the very crisis
of being. The yellowish sun sets, but not for ever, yet with a promise of
enchanting and bright day break as an ex gratia to the pallid nostrum, as
usual.
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