Only this and nothing more

From the desk of Vitasta

Time Irrelevant

We call ourselves geniuses, creative thinkers, movers and shakers, dynamic, but we are just alive, just biding our time, just looking for sparks and inventing magic where nothing exists, we rush out of rickshaws like streaks of paint, purple and blue streams of watercolour, pigments set loose by a demented vision, as though our colours could cloud the grey, as though our ideation could evapourate like the Laccadive sea and surround like the Richat every living thing, every machine, every ounce of material, visible and invisible, molecules of matter, as though our thoughts could crystallize and our vocal cords revoiced and revitalized, singing odes in asemic tongues, and nothing thereon would need to make sense, and nothing thus makes sense anyway. Is this all it takes to share and to be shared, to start a movement, give birth to a riot, a rebellion, hilly terrains of insufferability, joyful odes to whoever is listening or reading or thinking such. If I could, but only if I should. Take aim warriors, to preserve your memories. Take aim, and burst your water balloons on the deserts of the mind. Let there be once more a forest. Let there be once more filtered sunlight, and the dancing shadow of leaves in the windswept jungles of the conscience. Let there once more be a dervish, and a gypsy with purple hair walking away slowly, her wisdom bestowed, her seeds planted, her story told. I leave thee with this, and nothing more. 

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Bombay Love.

Peace

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