Notes on Surviving

What if?

After decades, Moor had understood, words and words were the only things that could take her anguish away. An evening spend in denial often lead to penning unusual things, sometimes how the trees looked and sometimes how bizarre and unfamiliar the universe looked which held her together and demolished her. When you pen your mind, things turn unusual. But, every entry was a piece of the broken mirror of truth, taken home. Later, all of it seem to erode away like leaves drowning in the heated summer air. If a minute disappointment bothered her she took to her measures of escaping: a journal entry or a movie or painting with too much black and red. Brown and ochre seemed the most piteous and poignant and blended too easily with the ground that dwelled her. And, the leafless trees stood out silently​ yet vivid portraying the veins she carried, the veins of the whole portrait. Beaches reminded her of Submarine by Richard Ayoade and her beloved who believed​ in distance and space and solitude to make art out of them.

On this god's green earth, which has turned into nothing but a juxtaposition of Camus, Beckett, Plath, Joyce, Lamb and none other than Eliot's series of fragmented poems and works, Moor supposed, every human was on their way towards torment. Only, as Rabindranath said, they realise the significance of moments later when everything turns sour and late and it blooms into realisation and the epic cesspool of agony and regret, both collective and individual to every human. Which is why we keep our fears and insanity under a clock and pray for it to heal until it does. Its hands are such as the swan's, thus, when clipped it reminds of too many long lost loves from every sphere in little ways. However, when time ceases to exist, and Moor knew not when but it often did cease to exist, individuals lived lifetimes in single looks, amongst all the effusing sulphur around them, among their beautifully​ burning existence.