Our secret little anachronistic problem

I am emotional, very. And, quite not trendy at being so. In French, 'vague' /(vaah-g)/ means wave, it suits the sentiment of waves better. There are times when I excessively day-dream, drifting from one thought to another and switching back and forth. In these moments, the agenda is set, think about death of near and dear ones, move on to fantasiing about the lost forgotten fancies, switch to evoking more sensitive thoughts about people dying in freak accidents everyday, flip to ice melting, global warming, then suddenly I picture myself in a film (mostly a political one, more often than not in 'Hazaaron Khwahishein Aisi') and start wondering how it would be to give speeches on stages, then cut to making love underneath a long library table on a hot summer afternoon. Finally, the Facebook page fills my thoughts, of comings of people, of travels, of photos, updates, I start comparing my life to those of the others in the same times as mine. The synchronic Saussurean study of comparative success of people like me in different situations just to be reminded that comparisons are odious. This reminds me I didn't finish the Matsuo Buson book, which reminds me that every time I read minimalist poetry, it beats me how concisely images strike to people. This can of course, only lead to reminding me that I may never paint like Degas or Monet, though their strokes look so simple and technically achievable. That calls for an empathizing with the other million or less who grieve for want of talent like me. Then, I start thinking about the girl who so strongly overcame her father's death and lo, I know not whether to run tree to tree with a flag or crawl in grime as symbolic of talent dearth. Very old-fashioned, slightly far-fetched.

Green killing by hope

Rainforest circling. She was looking up at the sky, covered in dark viscous green foliage. Let me take sometime to make you see what I do. Such dark green with shadows of black, green not in venomous but green as in the paintbrush of those clouds that are fat grey, waiting to roar, moving with the elephant's poise and so thickly packed to squeeze in oceans. Such was the foliage, ambushing every look upward to the sky, not knowing for one if what lies beyond is blue, orange, yellow or the night itself has lunged into the most intense moment of its waveful orgasms out of sleep, into waking. Such was the silence, not empty but heavy. And such was the word for the mood, heavy. Everything was so heavy from above the green shade, a little beneath in the smaller canopied air, further down inside her and beneath the ground into me.

There must have been wilder moments of such silence in the history of time, though here history was hardly a concern, nothing more than stacking moments falling like dominoes, passing as quickly as the tapping of the bronze vessel as courtesans swirl spun in colorful cobwebs, weaving another as they travel four corners of a room with black and white, criss and cross tiles. What is different is, this room echoes. The air is not heavy. Do you sense how all that we built in the span of a few words above vaporizes in this room, here? It is the echoes.

I've been thinking about dancing, except that every walk on the street is like one. Heaviness anchors all that I feel, beneath the ground, as I said, with million eyes already prepared with chronicles of praises,on this rainforest of a Jupiter place, the gravity leaves me only one place, beneath the ground. While some of me stands above and some of me dances, telecast in some other rooms.