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Friday, September 15, 2017

Oscillation Blues : A Culmination of 6 Distinct Blends of Absurdist Fiction + Magic Realism

(Painting : Café Terrace at Night by Van Gogh)

The Monument 

A rope was hanging from the top of the tower.Swinging in mid-air,it leapt across the memories of heaven and glimpsed through windows that had been bourne out of nowhere right at the heart of the sea.Across burial grounds and ashtrays,the peaks of mountain ranges swam their way to rise across the sunbeams that played hide and seek around and beneath her eyes.

The Cultivator 

Brewing in mid-noon in the depth of ploughed land,at the mercy of concentrated fragments of crystalline nutrients that would bear fruit in no time,gradually succumbing on the fertility that lingered on her bosom - they sang a merry song of the valleyes and the caves.
Then,it reverberated across the galaxy and turned into a beam of light right before our eyes.

(Painting : Darkness Breaking by GC Myers) 

The Adaptation

'I' am his name.It soon happened as though the wind had run past our souls and fragmented them into nothing before we knew it.His name is unheard in the fiercest of warfare,amidst the glory lights of civilization illuminating the heart of cities and embracing the spring that caresses the cheeks,breasts and legs of young souls.
I heard that he faded amidst silence a light year ago,before my birth in his hands,from his womb,succumbing on his soul lifetime after lifetime.

(Painting : Darkness Breaking by GC Myers)

The Alphabet

A world fluttered like a whisper in my dream the other day.Someone placed it on a leaf and imagined it was a canoe that carried the engravings layered across labyrinths and the sky that begins right after the exoneration of fate.A whisper,hence,in the ultimate analysis - is a perpetual touch.

(Painting : The Sleeping Gypsy by Henri Rousseau)

The Violin

The stiffness of a string was carved into waves high and low,of the kind that travels through your skin right into the verse that floats from your eyes to your lips
and back inside,rolls your intestine into a hardly derivable scripture.
The old man down the street lives inside the mundane house of cards that have been recurring ever since valuation lost count and causality - essence.

The Cartographer 

The navigator said he was worried about the compass turning upside down over virtue."Altitude it is!" yelled the women and man sitting across the gallery."The art of altitude",remarked the connoisseur.The cartographer initiated the end of the beginning of a circle and the planets around revolved for the arousal of an age.
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