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On some days I am a canvas of painting delved into colours of love for life and pain of reality. I am sad and I am successful. My mysticism is eternal like the sunrays' falling on the window sill.
The Window sill which has seen barren land turn homes and homes turn mansions.Mansions which plagued the soul and gave rise to human bots luring breathing beings to work for an extra hour, serve the mansion mechanism, so that they can secure their houses with culture, political instability and recession. But that's all a distinct dream, because till 45 you eat the relics of your foul soul and swallow frustration at the speed of 50 litres per hour like a fish that swallows water left to live in fish tank.
Tank covered with frost as if the voices of hearts inside it have been frozen. Frozen because thats the dogmatic criteria they need encompass in order participate in the "race of lifestyle." Maybe someday you will cross the red ribbon and win the race to good lifestyle. Until then you will serve the masters of your faith. By sitting for eleven hours a day because nothing here is now fate but all is hard earned.
Earn! You will Earn. While you will lose morality and peace and earn a living where you are oppressed and the oppressor. It's all an infinte even cycle until you cross the race beyond the mark and set the new bars. Until you learn to inferiorise another caste/race/community. Because that's the lesson you must remember you work hard until there is nothing soft in you left.
Left nothing! In this whisteling, buzzling world, where Nightingale song is stranger dream. Keats ghosts has also left. Well he was not able to deduce any new Odes, because here you have no art left to cherish. No dreams to live. No fat kid drawings to fit in an astronaut suit landing on an undiscovered moon. Because imagination have exhausted and become non renewable resource.
Resources. Everyone and everything is a resource here. From the butterfly in your stomach to hunger in your heart or anguish when you fail. All can be optimized and institutionalized in ways that no boy is here feels for his Romeo. On some days this all seems like a Van Gou painting gone wrong or Kafkaesque narrative.
Nevertheless, rationally saying it is not.This is my window sill. This my mansion.This is the life. Life that has valueless value and death that's the honourable sabbatical I wish for. Hobbies which are my escapade but well for today my canvas is full. I am full. So I must go back to my urgent call.