There is a din. It resonates still louder until it is deafening, the clangs so arresting, they
transmute the void of my mind to a vibrant reality.

I. There is an abyss in the fine grains of sand that stretch for miles into nothingness. Sometimes, the remnants are charred black, sometimes a resplendent glow that would put even the purest of souls to shame. Sometimes, the gentlest froth of the cerulean waves placates my churning insides. But your voice, like a gleaming jewel, pierces the calm with vibrant hues of shimmery richness. It slices the delirium with clarity, tones from static, healing from a purple bruise. Order from chaos.

II. Doric columns and baroque frames. Gilded metal and burnt sienna. The fragrance of
incense inflected with awe. We revel in the universal prowess of Monet and Van Gogh,
the more covert touch of Bernini and the enigmatic canvas of Still. Leviathan slits and
evanescent arcs, chrome and technicolor synchronize in irreplicable mosaics and
diaphanous frescoes. It’s an anathema to verbalize, so we observe the paradox of
ingenuity. A fusion of art and engineering. Ethereal landscapes unfasten riveted
imaginations and terrifying caricatures warp distorted thoughts of ourselves, of the
universe. Battered by the allure of verdant and crimson, appreciation is the only medicine,
In the inferno of ignited conceptions and furtive secrets. My eyes cloud in the search for
precision, amid the shrine of art and culture. What demarcates fabrication and reality? The
wanderer and his wanderess.
III. The fervent words of yesterday and the raw magnetism of tomorrow engulf me, control
me. I am paralyzed by the mutual exclusiveness of desire and abomination. Decadent
momentums. Enrapturing inertias. You bound ahead of me, shattering my visions of a dual
tomorrow. You approach me in a cerulean glow. You wear scuffed shoes and a glacial
gaze. My coal tresses bouncing in the pulse. Grotesque intrigue and lightning fast
aversion. You compel me to veer my path in allegories.
In the cosmic expanse of time, we are only a speck in the embattled field of hearts and
intersections. Some will continue in linear lines. Others will curve.

Photo Credit: kevin dooley Flickr via Compfight cc

Mili Dave

Mili Dave is an avid traveler and dreamer. She loves to juxtapose themes of remembrance and reality in her writing, and one day hopes to strike the elusive balance between the two. Mili is an active feminist and her work has been featured in Women’s Republic Magazine. When not writing, she is usually reading a mystery novel or absorbed in a classic Bollywood movie. She is currently working on her first novel.

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