No water today, when there was yesterday. Nobody plans to fail. No one wants that. Things just happen. Love slips away. Love comes. Life drags its feet, and you wish you could sleep through it all; birth, life, death, the phase of unhinged suspension, nirvana perhaps, perhaps?

No. Nobody knows that. Children know secrets but they don’t dwell on them too much. Adults keep secrets they think, define their existence and then curse them for dwelling in their dreams. Their speech’s mechanical, robot-like, impersonal, scattered, and empty.

When they smile, you sense loss. Something bright has left.

She plans for life while he hangs portraits on the wall. Next day, they may as well be in a different planet.

Life as you know it crumbles. The great earthquake twists reality into unreal pieces, bits of jagged pieces. What’s left – the memories, figments of your fondest rose-scented imaginations – of the lost times, places, people, scenes and objects; all of it seem much more precious, every single time they get sucked into the vacuum of the black hole, always a little too soon.

Nobody knows why black holes are there, in the first place. Maybe, their purpose is to swallow things up before they turn too ugly. Old pain dug up, a new nostalgic sensation pulsing from the greatest depth of your most physical, anatomical, literal part of your heart, spread out into the subjective, mental, spiritual sense of the word.

But you forget, given time. Dusts settle in. Nobody opens that dark eerie basement.

The water runs dry. One day, you’re high with delight cuddled in the addictive warm delicious joy. Tomorrow, Mr Grim tells you have cancer. People go missing. The weather has the knack for the extreme. Plants wither. Wild weeds keep growing. The house is silent. Nobody laughs. It is all so transitory, it’s so obscene.

How did you ever get used to this?

shanaz@RS | 9:24 PM | Labels: buddhalicious