Oh, the insolent voice in me cries. The cruelty oozes out
and everything I touch miserably dies, turns to dust. A silent wind blows, an implacable
evocation proliferates. The eyes they search, for love, in the tumult of lies,
in the desolate abode of past lovers. The heart flounders in the ocean of
possibilities, the mind remains indignant at the uncertainty. Lies. A Long lost
autumnal passion, now an evanescent memory. Now an impudent unreality masks an
elusive reality, a reality which is vulnerable to the past, incongruent with
the present, with itself. A stagnant confidence crumbles and obliterates at one
touch, one touch to the heart. The body slumps and falls numb, easy to break
now. A languid cadence fills the space; the cronies recite the poetry on the
intransigent woman with a heart of gold, stuck in the labyrinth of her
contradicting reality, furiously confused and timid. Lies, again. Indignation
grows. The body twists and turns, tears they fall on the floor, enchant the abode
with their purity. There’s the reality, in hurt, in tribulations. There’re the
cronies, there’s that one person, but not in reality. They welcome you and love
you, in the pestilential unreality, in the universe of nostalgia, in corruption
and in lies.
But there’s the enchanted reality, beyond the bounds of
possibilities and memories, in hurt, in instant happiness, in rain and under
the scorching sun. In reality, the trembling confidence tardily grows without
ever being pointed out or scolded. It grows, with the truest of souls. And a
touch to the face would placate the indignation forever as reality discerns
itself from unreality.
