Autumn brought about a season of fate's perfection and when you stopped at last in the long main street of the small town after that hundred and seventy miles, the last leaf was half spiralling on its descent like a broken toy from a painful childhood memory. Surely you'd remember the scent of those rosebud mornings when the world was a room and each audible heart sound flutterd by so weightlessly- surely you'd forget. Not the debonair gentleman but the picture-perfect lies he dutifully watered. Not the pretty seaside strolls nor dreamy wordless conversations but rather the lack of. So four delicate months played scapegrace to a short-lived felicity and a seasick parody, laying claim to a tender chimera and staging her staggering swan song(a deserving quietus to a histrionic love affair).
What byzantine foolery encapsulates my blithe heart in a glass box and births a fey countenance? Here rests no foul malapropism, no tardy pretence, but the poignant, succinct portrayal of a ghost of whom in it's living years had exploited lovers of love and artists of art. In a quaint reverie alongside the bona fide walk a boy playfully fiddles with a button smiling bashfully at his rain boots. At the taxi stand under the scrutiny of a pine, two men embrace in a most genuine, awkward poise- unrestrained and mouthing three-worded poems( the tree had documented it all ). Then it dawned upon me like a slow chill crawling up the snake of my spine (nothing short of a second, as quick as an escapade should afford to be ), that should i write, i would do so precariously and flamboyantly to depict the human condition- each grand tune, each heartful lyric and each tragic stacatto applause.
Chapter one in which we are introduced and the stories begin is a brooding month- full of promise for a ductile heart. Afterwards in sundry rumination we wrap ourselves in a humourous sadness, all in all a quiescent masquerade. Chapter two brings about a truth that talent is commonplace and days are spent on end dismissing lingering miasmas of vainglory and delusions of grandeur; as we say good-bye, thus is it impossible to go beyond this line.
*Author's Note- The traveller in the city has sea secrets in his eyes. For that he is very much inclined to raw beauty. So Nature taunts him; cajoles him with simple charms. The dreamer does not play clairvoyant- each waking day being autumn in Paris or a playfully-hidden flower garden. Sporadically she realises her naivete, but not once does she acknowledge her puerile quiddity. Thus follows the butchering of language, or the sacrilege of some or another's vault. I imagine you can see them at the wharf, just doing different things.
It is said that the world is in a state of bankruptcy; that the world owes the world more than the world can pay and ought to go into chancery and be sold. This is the reason why bards love wine, narcotics and the fumes of sandalwood and opium. Thus we stood at the remains of the day- you watching me and I looking back unable to read your thoughts, both of us being invisible lovers and ordinary patroits. By providence or otherwise(i can't remember how it started), I chanced upon a particularly tragic quagmire(beautiful nonetheless) and ruefully discarded the prospects she promised with a tinge of heartbreak. What of the makeshift Versailles and the portraits of pretty cathedrals against a prostrate night sky you ask? Probably another conveyor belt lie. But the rain leaves me mired in a deep malaise and this is my dedication.
