FICTION, life, philosophy

THiRST

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And the feather of thought swayed with the lightness of the wind. They say, you have to be the wings of the bird to fly; to travel and unravel, to stay and drift, to be and be forgotten, to be seen and imagined, to be the truth and a lie.

The lights got dim, and the lamps burned out. It was dark. I stayed sprawled on the floor for days, with nothing to eat and nowhere to go, I lost sense of time and hunger. The stars and sun had long become a fantasy, and what remained of the world was the thought of what it used to be or what it could become. Remaining in that fetal position I waited for the world to born. I waited for water, I waited for life, I waited for God and I waited for death. Nothing came to pull me out of the darkest dungeons of the blackest hell. I stayed and nothing moved me and nothing moved around me. I waited for someone to call out to me, to be a brother or a friend, to be victims of the same agony. As days became weeks and weeks became months, I gradually realized that I didn’t know what I wanted. I felt no pain; I had no hunger and no desire. Before all this began I remember there used to be things I was surrounded with, people I was friends with but now there is emptiness because of the darkness. I am not blind, I know; I just cannot see them, I cannot feel them anymore. This is not the end, I know. I am breathing and I think and that is what there is. If there is only me left, then I am life. If there is only me thinking, then I am thought. I cannot solve this math. A sharp pain hits my left eye and then the right, and there is light. I am lying on grass, under open sky. I am born, incomplete. I know something is still amiss, but I remember none of what it was before this. My stomach pains with hunger.

The arms of the lover are the knife, they say, that cuts the ropes of a slave to set him free. The hunt is for the One. The hunt is for you to die, forever; to escape this forged reality, to be forgotten once and for all, to be a lie, to drift, to unravel, and to be imagined.

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Kashiv woke up from the dream, poured water into the steel glass. He didn’t drink it but put the filled glass back on the table and opened his diary to write.

 

Image courtesy – http://www.google.com

13 thoughts on “THiRST”

  1. I remember a writer that I followed some years ago because this piece bore a sad resemblance in some way to his. I wish to see you write more in the coming year. Write your thoughts, write your heart because you are so good at it.

    Sending some love and light in case Kashiv needs it today. 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

  2. “The arms of the lover are the knife, they say, that cuts the ropes of a slave to set him free.”
    Only you, my dearest friend, could compare the arms of the lover to a knife and still express yourself with such eloquence and clarity. Most of us have known the kind of metaphorical slavery you write of, and the freedom experienced in love… A thirst quenched…
    I hope Kashiv does, and very soon, pick up that proverbial glass and take his fill of the water, to quench his own thirst. As always, I love your work.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you so much, Isha! You are really kind to say that and this means a lot coming from a writer who inspires me. Kashiv has a thirst, unquenchable. But for him to talk and drink, he will need a bottle of wine. Sobriety is a vice for him, only when is he in drunken stupor, does he talk. So, the thirst always remain.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Oh that’s a beautiful, beautiful thought! Sounds like the genesis of an altogether new blog post! Sobriety a vice, and the drunken stupor the prerequisite of art – applause!

        Like

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