Will the Ages Roll...Will the Ages Fly?

Sitting on the top of the world, or as it may feel, when we indeed are sitting at a height we can afford to imagine - the transcendence of clouds into morbid creatures of spirit, ecstasy and melancholia all at the same time runs deep into the nerves. There is a certain hysterical tinge inside the spirit of ecstasy, it awakens at the sound of nothing and defies to accept or deny the existential aristocracy of celestial delight. The neon lights or incandescent yellow lamps that enamour the sullen streets like jewels from the Victorian era do not remotely incite the vulgarly sober reluctance to life as these beings from the outer world can. 

Out of all that one can choose to perform in one's limited space-time occupation, which is indeed a bit compelled on that note, is to gather matter for composing a musical obituary. Anything musical, as we must have known from the point of time our consciousness gained form, is that they turn into trees of the sort that call for thunderstorms, the ticking away of church bells or clocks that bind the togetherness of settlements across the shore, on a country road...far away from this worldly world, far away from its imaginary realism. 



The satellites and the towers that enlighten the glorious attempt of a city to dress itself up in laces and sub-marinal efficacy to its motion sometimes dream of deeper gallows that sustain mundane days. The diluted mimosas and daisies look up to thunderstorms, the birds at midnight
talk about the tsunami that arose the day their ancestor star gave birth to a heinous civilization, the whirlpool of lanterns that burnt away their serene caves and the tunnels that they have had to pass through prior to reincarnation...the deepening of faith, the arousal of colours, the elongation of shadows, and how the secrets are now hanging in between heat and slumber, held up in mid-air. 

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