Reverie.

The minions in my head alone are high on every element surrounding my existence. Ofcourse, the terms of consciousness have been breached and I cannot (must not, really) interpret the regularities of life. There is something oddly proportionate about this aura. The dark clouds of consternation envelope me. Blankets of questions have drawn, erased, overlapped. Each instance is consequential. I might even cease to exist.

There shines a placid moon with its pasty glow. Here I sit with three other entities, entities that morph into mitigated blanks. I reek of putrid vibes. The abyss closes in on me, facilitating my answers. I am an escapee of my self-created inertia.

The sycophants in my head are amplified to a degree that is imperceptible to even the most nefarious of Extractors. I’m ill at heart, and cannot (will not, really) materialize into you. I want to. Inexplicably, it reminds me of the past – a concourse of the life I have lived so far. Instill me, instigate me.

The crimson, solemn eyes of a sinner. Your obscurity sinking into me. Might I know you better? I am pegging on the same level of what you reek of. Your phlegmatic aura. I would rather padlock the hole on my face before I utter preposterous reasons of the palm – wait. You daubed words into my hand. I could never recollect what the first line said. There was “autumn” embedded somewhere in the third or forth line/stanza. Did I miss my boat? Did the cast-iron certainty backfire? Your aura is graffiti-ed.

Myopic slaves of my mind. I beg you to surrender. Now that the barbs are slowly paving way for more understandings. Excuse me for a willing deployment of myself. You intimidate me with your silence. It surely is a knockering smile that welts me into histories. Fugitive much?

Your cheap ploy doesn’t work now. Joie de vivre! What curse do you talk about? Palm greasing, if you may. The pallor of expressions on your face (and the tendency to walk the line) has given you off. You tick me. The silence of one amplified by the constant yapping of the other. Haul over the coals as the buzz starts to wear off. I have no recollection of the moments. All I remember is running away. A listing of piece-meals falls into my lap. Oh the remorse! Undeserving corollaries of my actions. I am befuddled. I need to take a breather.

I reach home in solitude and quietly yearn for the company due next day. Silly little tricksters – minus one. A sprinting lizard on the floor doesn’t scare the bejesus out of me anymore. The daze as heavy as ever, served on a silver platter… The three whiffs of submission!

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