Others Abstract Romance
A cup of cold coffee and a book with yellowed pages,
I wonder if this is the poetic portrait of my heaven
I even wonder when I will grow old,
Will I be the one with dentures or with a hunchback...
'Halt,' my Brain calls out to me. 'You do not need to go so far into infinity.'
I pause for some seconds,
Listen to the gruff voice of my brain
And then I decide:
I would not fall into the category of those whose hamartia is their downfall;
I would not let my imagination swiss pass galaxies, circle the million suns that are there in the Multiverse.
I would not let my thoughts delve into black holes, and emerge out again,
Not able to defy science because thoughts are not made up of subatomic particles.
So when I decide for the Multiverse to orient itself around myself as I deem fit,
Then I embark on my journey to discover the Multiverse, a sabbatical on which along with traversing the light years of the myriad Universes,
I go on to introspect my inner Universe and my verses.
I want to dive into the empty space, into dark matter which is darker than darkness,
And discover my answers by the collision of the dark and the darkness.
I want to restructure, reorient, reframe my gossamer threads which link one thought to another,
But if I try to even touch them they would be severed forever.
Then I think, how about I let things be what they are, and I just walk on with you;
I just walk on with you to unknown lands, sparkling galaxies, the vacuum of space, and come back again....back again to the my intellect, to my thoughts, to my Universe, to my galaxy, to my solar system, my planet, my continent, my country, my state, my city, my street, my home, my room, my bed, and myself.
I was never one of those persons who could write calligraphically;
My thoughts are so in foamy agitation that I cannot wait to spend time on one word when I have billion others zooming in and out of the Multiverse.
Perhaps this was the reason why you hate maths too,
Because you are even more dishevelled than I,
You cannot organise your mind to not be in an disorganized array.
Imagine if we were living in a black hole,
Could we zoom in and out like our thoughts
Could we live the perfect life, the fairy tale dream, the novel with yellowed pages which I was reading when I started pondering over the significance of these insignificances?
Was that cup of cold coffee significant?
Was that breeze which cooled the cold coffee significant?
Were those thoughts of you significant?
Was the fairly tale reality, that black hole dream, those real fantasies significant?
Can insignificances be brewed out into a cup of coffee fluently and subtly and ardently and beautifully and poetically?
So if insignificances are significant
Even when they are insignificant,
How can significances not be insignificant
Even when they are significant?
And with the interplay of significances and insignificances, I question myself:
Was I in love with you or
With the idea of being in love with my emotions and my soothing agitations?
Imagine if you were a book which I could read,
Imagine if you were not what you are,
Imagine if time were flying backwards,
Imagine if you were my Romeo and I were fleeing with you,
Imagine if I imagined all my imaginations with you,
Imagine if you were all of my imagination,
My imagination which would not be coupled with other imaginations.
And I could melt all the ice in the Arctic and drown everything that I could,
Imagine, that only if, only if
These significant musings were not deemed insignificant;
Only if the significance of insignificances were approved,
I would not be called a hopeless wanderer, a tuneless guitarist, an eccentric romantic, a girl drowning in her own deluge,
A girl who would visualise only the significance of insignificance by whooshing through the Multiverse.