Tuesday, 5 March 2019

So, it must be so

(View from a plane in the feververy month of 2019)

The landscape, parched, already rocky fed with waters from shrinking veins. A sea of clouds with towaering pillars of dust and vapour bringing to mind the formations of colorful columns of smoke witnessing the birth of a star from some space documentary or a spectre from Kubrick's Odyssey.

And the Sun, his majesty, ever prompting the Eart towards itself hangs aloft in its brimming ecstasy.

And the pen, a child of Earth and water, struggling and hence scribbling to capture the essence of this moment, bring back to life the meaning which it had been robbed off.

And the heart, coming to terms with sweet pain of love, the stingings of jelly fish, still cannot stop itself from imagining the far future where only the long gaze of chaotic science can presently reach and accept its wisdom - silence, thou are and silence, thou returnest.
For it fights backs and silences all silences and yearns to make the pen glide to write - it was, it is and it will for it must.

So, it is so.

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