Sometimes the still, clear waters are horribly disturbed by external stimuli’s. If only things had unwound some other way, if only the quietness of all were there to stay, in the split of a moment, everything becomes unpredictable and we can only speculate the outcomes and wait. In that waiting period, as glimpses from alternate universes unfold in your mind’s eye, it makes poets out of us all, like philosophers with long beards crackling with wisdom and scientists putting on their thinking cap, twirling around on the chair, thinking, thinking of world’s beyond, of outcomes and their enigmas. It is in this waiting period, the period destiny takes to once and for all seal itself, that different emotions grip your soul, an indulging violet to a fiery red, a hopeful crimson to burnt orange, guileless cerulean to the wicked sepia. Murky thoughts, a wave of effervescence grips you all of a sudden, you have a powerful premonition, you are convinced of its playing out. Why, you have been there before, have you not? and with that you lose yourself in the past. Everything will go right for a while, Carpe diem, you shall shout, all passion unfurled, drunk with ambrosia, armed with invisible strength, invincible strength, it will be a roller coaster ride and then when you have tasted the sensuous invigorating high, the ride will plunge down, deeper and deeper, not even spiraling into the abyss, no, simply free falling, plummeting. Everything went wrong.* Oh, you poor weary soul, buckled up with a monstrous emotional baggage, do not weep for you have lived, most fearlessly, tirade-ing recklessly, do not give in to the burgeoning anger, writing a barrage of irate letters to no-one in particular, blaming yourself now , fate then , your alter ego another then or others like you, in a graver then. But yes, you are full of fatigue now, now you wish to stand on one leg like the deadpan Ostrich, a serene posture with your head bent low, rooted to the spot, as if turned to stone. You do not wish to take on the world; you simply wish to float, vapidly, like a subservient penny on the worldly ripples. You are back in your chair, the same chair, in the same walls, still waiting for the acting moment, except. Your past has made the decision for you. The colors settle to that of a brimstone, cold grey.
*On a more informal note-
Then you look back and try passing the instances in the timeline through your analytical faculty, trying to figure out, see what you missed then, I know now. The uncertainties that hovered, the small things that triggered utter dislike, right in the beginning, those tiny stuff erupt over time, become bigger pain in the butts and then. Then die. Just fucking die.


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