A practical smile , (blossoming) too late

A practical smile , (blossoming) too late

It all began, in augmentation.

I was tapping on my keyboard, just like any other day, any other usual day. In an utter hope, that these bleeding words will slowly take away your personal pain, through evocation and eloquence , on a paper space, and they will eventually, soothe all your agonizing teething pain, through a spectacular simile, and a pseudo emotional disguise, and you will boast there, for far too long, claiming to be your own, A long lost story in the lost city of Eldorado. A night time sky, with starlights, shining bright as diamonds, and the inactive periodic table. where all are too problematic in trouble shooting.

Debugging that even time space can never afford.

“Did you recite chapter Taha today?” You asked me.
Actually I was engrossed with the storytelling of this specific chapter of the holy Quran, since last night . An entire vulnerable story of a stuck pin on a gramophone for far too long, for no good reason.

The famous story of prophecy , with method and mannerism. Prophet Moses , Aron and the cursed Samiri. The fateful fallibility of wonderland, an eternal saga, everflowing.

One vagabond theory of an epic voyage.

We both were laughing. Or, in other words, one must say, that we were giggling , without too much explicit facial expression.

No longer mistaken or misunderstood , other than a concept, belonging in a joyous zone.

And I would simply stop there, with a complete full stop, before my next cycle in the cul-de sac. Rumination or hibernation , what is there in a pre-term confluence after all!

And I expressed my intention, to you, my eternal debating friend.
And I heard you, “ And , down the line, we will eventually meet Tagore, right?”

A true pain in an already shattered neck, I thought.

Were they helpful, at all?

Days are passing by, all too swiftly. Heartaches are also a specific thread, in dire need of being a tantalizing topic. Today’s hotly debated rumor is tomorrow’s niche of oblivion. All too short, all too absorbing, through transitory time.

“Put some words in the lines….. or, in between the lines,” You requested.

I tried to think through the request. To find a simile in a classroom setting. And all I could remember, that I had a music mentor in my childhood. The bizarre cultural taste that gets seasoned in us in our becoming, is all too ambiguous, specially for us, born in the sub-continental region. We digress , debate and fall entirely in our eternal spring coefficient of love , on a rainy day, when it is hailing outside with incessant rain. Life halts there, entirely like a flat tire. A Puncture of overlapping venn diagrams must also be there with an app name, these days are intrepid with possibilities.

Anything and everything is possible these days.
Especially, when everything about impossible is flickering on billboards and banners , of marketable values of “I’m possible!”

Frankly speaking, there is nothing wrong with it, also. I never blame anyone. There is no right and wrong answer key, specific enough, in this type of perceiving maze.

The seamstress on the moonlight, with her eternal work order, never to be finishing soon!

But I committed, Just for you, I will try, now I know that for sure. And just an inch away from the finish line, I will hear your usual lighter vibes of insinuation, pissing me off, with even the beginning effort. Hell of an effort, blunderous for the logical or the rational side of mine.

“I am sorry, if I am sounding perplexed, to you.
Please put some unique words in the pauses.
Forget about the continuity of the lines.”
You seemed serious.

I was looking thoroughly, simply to remember a face, I yearned to remember, for far too long. The eternal hot debate of the subject and predicate. The speaker and the reciter moment. Decisive enough to fall short , all in a probabilistic pattern.

The story of eternal permutation and combination.
A young enwrapped fitted sheet, consoling the delicate motif, out there, cosmic.

Sometimes submission to a helpless sleep is also much needed, than utterance in eloquence. And I agreed with you.

“You better not try to find the gaps in sounds. They are trespasser sounds, please let them go.”
My own voice startled me, too.

And I knew , I gripped the parker pen. At last.

Where a short story imprints the symptom of a full blown novel, only to unfold more.

“Let them socialize, please!”
I heard you, then, at last.

This was not a request, nowhere even near to that nature .
A practical smile , (blossoming) too late.

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