Oh, the insolent voice in me cries. The cruelty oozes out and everything I touch miserably dies, turns to dust. A silent wind blows, an implacable evocation proliferates. The eyes they search, for love, in the tumult of lies, in the desolate abode of past lovers. The heart flounders in the ocean of possibilities, the mind remains indignant at the uncertainty. Lies. A Long lost autumnal passion, now an evanescent memory. Now an impudent unreality masks an elusive reality, a reality which is vulnerable to the past, incongruent with the present, with itself. A stagnant confidence crumbles and obliterates at one touch, one touch to the heart. The body slumps and falls numb, easy to break now. A languid cadence fills the space; the cronies recite the poetry on the intransigent woman with a heart of gold, stuck in the labyrinth of her contradicting reality, furiously confused and timid. Lies, again. Indignation grows. The body twists and turns, tears they fall on the floor, enchant the abode with their purity. There’s the reality, in hurt, in tribulations. There’re the cronies, there’s that one person, but not in reality. They welcome you and love you, in the pestilential unreality, in the universe of nostalgia, in corruption and in lies.
But there’s the enchanted reality, beyond the bounds of possibilities and memories, in hurt, in instant happiness, in rain and under the scorching sun. In reality, the trembling confidence tardily grows without ever being pointed out or scolded. It grows, with the truest of souls. And a touch to the face would placate the indignation forever as reality discerns itself from unreality.
But almost, a hand reaches out to the face. Almost. And I’m by myself, in my enchanting reality, forever.