Divine enchantment of life is held in its absolute feeble-ness Deva. One must responsibly show the valorous will to break the upheaved persona into millions n millions n millions of cosmic constellations, Either to deserve the peace in myriads of ephemeral self Or to be the eternal self. हर हर महादेव !
#pod#wod#end#miraquill#writersnetwork#ceereposts . Trust me I'm not even in my right senses. Like I don't what's wrong with me. Like I've kind of lost my inspiration but I still write because I want to be prepared when the inspiration arrives in its own mysterious way. I'm stuck and it's very hard to come out of it. I'm lost~~~ But I don't want to be for long.
Against the backdrop of yellow canola fields we planned our escape to the mighty Emerald City where the only canola came in plastic bottles for three ninety-five in up-sized supermarkets bigger than our whole town put together, mayor and all.
Neither of us could cook (or keep house, for that matter) so the bottle of canola oil sat idle in the pantry and the bed we made love in rarely got made, a sign perhaps that the tumultuous beginning would lead us down the road to our tumultuous end.
You wanted your cake made with a pound of butter insisting that I make some coin while making mac and cheese which ultimately always burned on the dinky little stovetop while I attempted to Hoover our arguments out of the rug.
The ring around the bathtub increased in circumference as the ring of smug satisfaction that we had managed to get out of that tiny farming town diminished in circumference - you longed for your mother's cooking and I longed to throw the Hoover at your fat egotistical head.
Homesick for my family and tired of pretending to be little Miss Marvellous housewife I left you sleeping crumpled up underneath the eiderdown, climbing into my little Gemini to make my bold escape away from the Emerald City driving through the day until the vast blue sky collided with fields the colour of sunshine and I knew that I was home.
And just like those endless canola fields I thought that love would last forever.
You hands were steady They never missed a flourish Impeccable movements Of an exquisite composition On a parchment torn askew I'm scrawling morosely Making blots on The yellowing parchment Trying to trace the lines You wrote in the margins With a borrowed brush One stroke at a time