Nikunj Bansal
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In a very dismal state, lying all around, waste, and stems molecular stones, beating to death, slow, blow by blow, I begin to shudder, dreading the fear, the ghastly fear. The fear is not new, the form is the same, the present is the same, the future is the same. The past is but all a waste. Pro man creates, his creation is a rolling stone, mine’s a sandman, washed away at shore. Time and again, man resurrects from the dead, creates life, embraces it, and fills his within and without. The tsunami washes away all fishermen, forcing them to run to the center, where there is protection, wall made of procreation, he still sits at the beach and resurrects his inconsequential sandman. There’s no fisherman left to help him build legs and arms, or just sit with him enjoy the surreal sunset. They had homes. He had none. At 4 they would go inside to shield them from painful sunrise, the cycle repeating, there is no death, the night dies, the man does not.
Every time tsunami comes, a chuck of his life is washed away. Those who remain, their clutch weakens. In times of clouds, the without remains lost. Blood boils inside my heart, my veins cry, in terror we shriek for the master, the master has become a cabbage
now. The man feels death at doorstep, he locks himself inside, then he hears his heart knock, he’s got nowhere to hide inside. He fakes death. He makes them believe he’s dead and therefore of no use, so they can’t bug him for their crisis. The huge let down that this world is to the womb, he gets lost in the wood, paths diverging to infinite. Every night after walking some more, the ever so painful thought to trace back comes to haunt. No matter how interesting the journey is, if there is no destination, then the man is not tuned to walk. He’ll sit and sleep for as long as it takes.
As long as there is food available.