Spots Of Time.

Seven.

Suppose you have an exam in an hour, and you are required to traverse out of your rooms through three doors.

Any door could be the way out, you could either be locked in, or use your inculcating skills to deduce, decode and derive multiple meanings to arrive at useful logical conclusions, so you could atleast make it out of there, all concrete, gravel, stone and the delusions in concealment, did you stop to look under the carpet?

What shall be done then?

Not to be precluded by spatial glitches, what shall be the decisive factor in the argument?

Should you dare go out on a hunch, sit down, under, and on, write answers involving images of dismantling and deconstruction in bland cursive with swirls and turns, write answers upon disintegrating numerals that are never to don attires on their own terms, write all scrawny digits involving tools of arithmetical precision?

Now the other doors are accessible though, suppose, this hypothesis might send you tumbling and twirling, where you could escape, an invalid road devoid of any commitments, obligations and responsibilities, let this hypothesis be slightly ambivalent, let it be a road where the moment is in suspension, the moment in statis, the moment transparent like the drops of rain roosting upon that window, which stays attuned under the supervision of a television, a natural television, a rectangular window encapsulating scenes of a pasture all in attires of green, which could be panoramic: glancing all over, giving access to peripheral visions, watching the scenery while you tilt your head from side to side, wearing a smile piercing your facial muscles, alarming your senses of how the wreaths of nature are seeped into time, a holy consecration, all immersive toes in the spectre of flora, all green, green in all shades, dark green, foliage, twirled canopy in thick sets, weeds in brown crippling under, betwixt, sliding, coiling around, black shadows interspersed to make the other end of the seesaw gleam, the seesaw of all herbs, shrubs and trees, the illuminating shades that gets the warmth of the celestial object, the attire of her father still rooted in space, allowing contrasting edges to still wear the dainty crowns of the foundations, the glistening green undergoing patterns of seasons, time revolving around with the burgeoning idiosyncrasies.

Then time stopped one day.

Nobody knew why?
How?

All the clocks were stopped.

All the hours went into a forbidden cessation.

All the time zones were resetting, melting into vapour to be one and the same.

The world of kangaroos burnt then.

No moving forth of hands of the clock, antique and digitised, all hung up like the commodities and objects of the stationery, in states of stationary, as if time finally decided to sit down, the chimes vanished, people couldn't recognise alarms, the ticking sounds are toes immersing in the pond of oblivion.

The oceans turned and churned.

Take a break.

Take a deep breath.

Twirl open a bottle cap.

The houses were flooded, people moving to higher plains.

Quench your thirst, oh Sisyphus, how you move around and around, did you finally catch your breath, how you roll rocks up and down, did you finally achieve redemption, is this the end to the clock's circular motion?

Or will it roll back up, spurn and repudiate, reverse, return back to the starting point where it eliminates the element of existence?

The world of the weavers who wove god burnt down in a cathedral.

Will the frog leap backwards preceding back to the inception, the stone the homeless boy threw by the levee, will he be in a thrall with the rock in his hand, time detracting his act of skimming he chiseled to perfection, ripples evanescent of the gentle flick of the doltish stone?

Jasmine could not meet Ansteckend.

Both were kept in isolation.

The last time they met, the deities were angry, presiding over their lairs, holding up meetings, adjunctions, colloquys, a handful of whispers, opinions hung up as daguerreotypes, all waiting to pass the requisite judgement, and they decided to hang up time, make her stay still, as if let her be crucified for a certain while, as if water stays stagnant with the bird's gaze, still and still, the painter by the lake with her colour still being splayed, the ducks still in succession with one amongst the line meditating under water, the flies, the bees, the cicadas, the butterflies all still when time was put on hold by the gods of all worlds.

"Are you in love with me, Ansteckend?"

"Yes. I am."

"Will you take care of yourself if we get stranded apart someday?"

"Never kolija."

Jasmine cups Ansteckend's face, pulls him closer to feel his embrace while the diurnal carried on, the goblins, the conjurers, the witches, the spirits, the machines, all specks of civilization dissolving their anguish, bereavement, despair and pain in the chai.

Ansteckend's boat was seized, tied to the shore while the hole kept half of it submerged like his heart.

The world of the lovers to be hauled up amidst robbers and people abiding to constipated arguments.

He had been house arrested under the pretext of stealing time in his boat.

Mr. Ansteckend now passes his time reading history in the library of the pits.

Jasmine still fights for her lover wearing her father's celestial object, still changing worlds, still struggling with her resolution to free the shackled Ansteckend with his broken leg.

The worlds disrupting whilst time still being hung up, still in guillotine.