Writing about the days of the delirium: Rambling Thoughts
And now, there were these late-summer, early-spring, honeydew, violet-veined days when I could fairly gush in through the trajectory of moronic and pandemic musings anymore. There was a loss of the bubbling spirit that was present earlier, and there was a profitable distribution of the belligerent afternoons that caroused for silence. What poetry called for was slumber, what the lines chalked out as a fuzzy drink was a delirious, magnetic non-aligned mode of existence where somedays I felt the purposelessness of writing was itself an enigma!
My voyeuristic ramblings lured me into the slithering sensations of captivity. I looked on Sundays, getting atrociously befooled and dwarfed by what was stylistically called the pandemic. We had to sustain; living was something close to being-not-so-fair, it was brutal, sarcastic a word. Writing an editorial has never been a cakewalk, swooning over the non-decrepit lines of an enigmatic ‘God-knows-what’ inevitably trying to cover up the guilt of writing the ‘good, the bad and the ugly!’
What remained was a draught, not of vintage wine, perhaps, as the poet waxing eloquent on the nightingale had said so many years back; what remained was a long, listless poem, an editorial overburdened with memories that were rekindled never to die. The poet in me was desperate to cry, to fall a prey to the villainous cajoling of the pandemic perhaps, when the October moon shone never like before, dethroning the blood-red purpose of a circus called Love!
Oho, back from the ramblings now! Here’s a bouquet that we present this Sunday. Poems, Features, Prose of purposelessness, letter, colours of mirth and many more.
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