I remember the gentle blues that lit the terrace. The staircase, rigid and sturdy, old and worn. The small pavement of cement inches away from the afterlife. Pigeons were my favorite people. I would watch them as if they wore all possible beauty on their agile necks. An absurd range of pigmented pink. Like the sky had detonated on them. With its vessels, stiffened blood, talking tongues, armies of flesh: all now swimming around the neck.
I would talk to them under the departure of language. A silhouette of conversation.What is behavior outside of society? How do you move, talk, lift, appear or disappear in a universe without modals ( can, could, should, must )? What is a character when the mind is a landscape of symptoms?
Pain. Continuous waves of inexplicable grief. Grief like it has an existence outside of emotion. Grief as a palpable thing. Grief grazing over the skin. Grief cutting. Grief digging. Grief burying needles and nails and assortments and items that do not exist.
The body becomes a range of chemicals. Cattle running wild inside the crazy town.Shifting from arid yellows to flying golds then dimming blues and purple and lavender and rose and murder and lotus and murder on the lotus.
The body occasionally exhausts. So does the mind. Runs out of juice. In this ceaseless spinning chamber of silence, the pigeons trot. Beauty, alive. Meaning. Sense. Reality. Love. Overwhelming. Sheets and sheets of embroidered rhythm.Sewing the colors of daylight. Patching it all, momentarily. The sky expands. Parabolic canvas. A feverishly joyous blue. Sapphire.Proliferating. Burning. Aching. Caressing. Burning.
Proliferating. Burning. Aching. Caressing. Burning.
Music. Harmony. Silence.
The stirring center of entropy, of continuous ellipses, is a black hole.
Silent. Moist. Static. Point zero. Peace.
© Aakriti Kuntal