Kindly, fade into this world.
A vertical year had passed, digitally. With his conflicts—balanced out, purposes—irrelevant, and the audience taken away he was but a brooding mold contained in the mugginess of a nook. Addicts of the right angle were interpreting circles, on the telly; while the room, his abode, smelt of turpentine: new paint. The walls, glossy and cheap, were dripping a rude new red. Restless beams of yellow crept past hidden gaps, delivering the afternoon heat on the fresh paint—vaporizing, unlocking fumes.
Straightness melted; solid reds softened to a mist; eccentrically parked windows flexed, curved in, so did the floor—it caved in, just a bit, like the flaccid sofa; mosaic tiles loosened up like brittle earth, willingly. Everything seemed to defocus.
I love mosaics
They explain everything
King of patterns: a language, I think.
Bits of whole spices in a Biryani—tell a story when left alone—
Sting when singled out,
Whorl out—assertively: flourishes of a drunk painter,
Come winter—they turn into silk weaver’s palmar patterns,
Ovoid silences: the minute after a Tillana,
Smell like my paddy fields—the day before harvest.
The worthy parts assemble, but too hurriedly.
Alas! A flawed whole:
Polygonal flatness; angle-less mediocrity
“A freakin’ Vanilla ice cream”
A vigorously shaking black marble paper weight cuts into the soggy visuals of a melting ice-cream. The sound of a fast-approaching train fills the room, physically, shaking his living space and its pointlessness; after a moment, we dissolve back into his subconscious slurry.
Trains: boring linear assemblies
I hate ‘em and train stations.
Sun’s cooked ‘em all up
The Railways, they’re no more
The shiny tracks, the brown carriages—
Blebbed-out mercury vesicles, molten lava
The sound of train was suddenly interrupted by a cracking sound, jolting him back to a sense of sanity. The Cheval mirror by the green sofa, he noticed, had shatter lines snaking out radially from a center. Glass pieces were strewn all over, some heavy ones stuck to their mother: the mirror, now a vivid pie chart. The sun that had knifed in, reflecting off the richly injured, imposed itself as rude, pointy triangles of light and shade. A looming shadow’s triangularity merged and matched into a congruous, angry shard.
I am them—reduced, multiplied.
I am in them.
Parts of me, yeah!
Reddened, moving parts of me,
Spilt all over, floored.
“Enough with that pathetic pomposity!”
An extreme close up of a shard cuts to a bird’s eye view of the room, sans its ceiling. His arrogant facets lay scattered in the broken glass pieces, squealing in myriad tongues: dissonant parts of a photo autopsied brittleness. Blackness begun to vignette in.
I am, now, my elements
Basic, spare—flat notes
“Am I a mosaic?”
I’ll sleep, now, I love its nothingness
The heat worsened; the paint’s fumes flooded his senses. Numbness.
Fade unto white. Whiteness.