[Inspired by an honest dream caught in a shuttering gaze.]
The world, unaware of threats, sleeps peacefully at night. When it shuts down, demons and angels arrive at the occasion to lure it into attraction traps. No human has ever cracked this code of enticement and pain, and the soul often gets caught up in the cycles of repetition and patterns instead of reviving itself from nothingness. For a dream is to be seen at night, only to be lost at the brink of consciousness.
Dreams, in their dusty rawness, lay down the most explicit realities of our very own canvas, the untouched portrait, the flaw in our lines. In these dreams lies the comfort of the unwavering spirit of romance—the romance between the self and its tarnished reflection.
The dreary reflection of a fruitful companion gleaming kindness from a length afar, its demeanor that of a chivalrous soldier, speaks with the fluency of angels in a cryptic language to woo the clueless spectator. It recites sonnets of beauty and magic, singing so mellifluously that the heart does indeed feel the need to gulp an air of sobriety to bring back sense to life.
Its mystifying existence in itself is a gift to the audience, and its gaze is oddly fixated upon the tree under which vows of togetherness are written and narrated to the spectator. Lines of blocking boundaries are erased gently this night as the duo duets to the songs of celebration merging with the clamor of applause. A little bit more than an exchange happens this very night of shared visions of fear, misery, and fate. The reflection bends down to embrace the warmth of love from the lips of the wounded with intense pride as the two ends melt into one another. The shadow knows its curse of being a mere reflection, yet it sins for the sheer pleasure of inflicting pain to a hollow void. It enjoys challenging fearful outcomes, for it gives in to the addiction of the thrill of loss and gain. Knowing that it has now started a domino of chaos, it triggers a storm in pursuit of tormenting the spectator’s mind, mindlessly replaying the scene of exchange which was nothing but a mere illusion. The tree stands still as a witness to the stage where actions took flight, but the actors are cursed to blindly follow the truth trails in disarray.
“The illusion of love is a scary place to retrace,” utters the spectator at the thought of the horrendous vision. It wakes up to swim in the pool of oblivion, trying to catch the trail of breath delivered to its weary lungs by its unobserved host. The last glimpse captured in its lens was the sight of a prideful liar spewing a virulent concoction made to taste like a love potion. “The sight of a man so wretched, the path of love so crooked,” screams the spectator, yet it stares at its past and realizes that the damage had already been done.
The observer finds itself madly flipping through the journals of memory for peaceful references and clues. “How disdainful and frail is the act of repetition, for the consequences come to life and no matter how hard I try to uproot the cause, the question of submission to fate remains alive.” The voice wavers at the thought of crossing paths with its past but holds the tree of fate close to the call.
The testimony to the exchanged promises–the decorated tree of life branches out to formulate newer endings and truths. It stood there, consolidated with the choice to stand on the foundations of happenings, and with the right to remain silent in moments of being the receptor of hurtful truths. For it saw both the entities in their explicit beings–its eyes captured the essence of the pure soul and its devious reflection of duality. It heard the vows of togetherness under the guise of illusionary pretense, but it never warned the actors. It stood there, staring helplessly, witnessing the impact of cause and effect, causation and correlation, fate and magic. Nobody knows how many times the body will visit the crime scene where love unwhirled its colors. Nobody stands solid in this war against denial. However, at the end of the tunnel stands the desolate reality of existence in the myriads of illusions. The tree gracefully bows down, spreading out its branches, sheltering the unavoidable outcomes of our own choices—the creation of the weapon of our destruction.
By-
Anupriya Singh Adaval
BMMMC
2nd Year
[Edited by Tushita Choudhary and Mehak Aggarwal
Art Curated by Naina Sarma]
Comments