Oblivion!

The evening resembles a plight of ecstasy, too surreal, too benevolent, and the way my dear profusely dresses in the cardigan of torn Denim feels subtle. Are you entirely ready? With your  brush strokes so hefty, so cruel as it draws humanity  onto servitude, what is your art, my dear? A way of  establishing peace or fear?  Too scornful, resentful, relentless, and the words of  sheer agony that smells from your paints, a woe of a widow, and an awe of an oppression, and under that cardigan of yours, the red gown you wear to glorify the pretense, to demean subjectivity, and to derail love, all so prettily sworn upon, too prosperous and too preposterous  as you praise the color of blood. Is that hate my dear? Hate to a life so crude and raw. Should I call you 'a human', or ' a-human '?  You see this turmoil of vindication you seamlessly throw upon me, with your wise words of liberty and peace,  a sense of disbelief for the swords and weapons in the h...

  Somewhere in my life – be it buses or streets, or homes and museums – somebody has always told me about how it has always been with them. Moments of understanding, and moments of faith, all so truly astonishing about how life has played out so differently for them. I have listened to their stories, mused in their favorite music, admired their art, loved their presence, been lost in their happiness, and felt closer to the idea of connections. In those moments of lively conversations, those moments of immense gratitude and sometimes those moments of helplessness towards the world or the self, I am reminded that nothing has been constant in this life for anyone. Has it?  I see new phones, new covers. I have shouted dayyumnnn to the Tesla's speed somewhere in Kathmandu. I have adored the hazelnut lattes of Himalayan Java and paid excessively high for peach tea. I have been on bike rides with friends only to see the Christmas decorations, and I have been around people I barely kn...