The menagerie of the town notifies with a signboard that it’s clearly unsafe to be a potential wild conservationist in order to bake up the spirit and soothe a brisk pageant and nevertheless have a morning experience. I being a philosopher in this humdrum life annotated by the metropolitans is craving up for a dish of ecstasy and ambience from the window pane that distorted the view in a wintry morning.

Boiling up a kettle of water, I am keen to experience the slobber animosity outwards. Life begins at adolescence and ends up in the process of visiting a forensic department of birthday cake with eighteen candles lit up. People wake up, and seek for the wisdom of what can or cannot be perished. The passion is tempered by the overtly courageous elders who make the sorting out a bit easier. Being a workforce of machines, or of sickening human body or making a slave out of your spirit. Where the spirit is engrossed, liberty thus never gets a tactile endeavoring amnesty.

The story ends here. Whatever the dimension meant to be, it was alleviated to a form, which has significantly taken a discourse of undefined custom. The propensity develops. The colors perish. The mooning turns into punitive reality. A cold blood rushes through the spring from winter and freezes in hot summer sun. The paradox of a life revolves like the essence of unforgotten. A frivolous temperament thus ceases to exist. 

Metro city, traffic lights, dust and wind circumferences naive childhood. Adulthood marks the childhood and a beginner remarks the fable of teenage. The moral gets secular. The lights get out.

All are meant awhile!    



2: The moonlight lit up the cigarette
The moonlight lit up the cigarette

The continuum phase of a paused midday allows the midnight turn into a reality. The pyrogenic brick way towards the bazaar was heated up by the timorous rays of moonlight. A pack of 20 cigarettes is developing damps due to the inaccessibility of these to my lungs. The moonshine is a hoax under the sunshine of what they term as innuendo. The flaunted flags of the political parties in the sky do not demise the exalted beauty of the moonlit night. Fogs and mystic dew incorporate the wintry breeze.

“Limitation is what defines everything” cries out Joheb Hassan. The inmost dwindling stars in him are yet to be a published work of art. The truth is taught to us as a problematic phase, so is the limitation.

Walking past the streets of the outskirts, there needs a vision that entangles the mind. A dawning, a perfect morning, a perfect sunrise- the sight that will satisfy the rest of your life that dominates and measures its material gains. An experience of poetic creation without grandiloquence in front of your eyes. The quintessence salvation that will bear your marks and will verdict your chastity.

The entire surrounding smokes up a lightened cigarette. The temperament is not what you ever experienced even after a break of your breathtaking juncture. The life in a stationary burlesque calls for an attention. The levees in it are never meant to be mended with displeasure.

Let the creation be witnessed, the desires get exercised.

Let the moon smoke up. The cigarettes burnt down to ashes.