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Art Scar

Deep seated scar of going afar, yet stay within the norms of nominalism. Landscapes are for real, whose tropes suits the elsewhere. Landscape tropes fit the narcotic dreamer. But the story was not so from the beginning. It was love for the places, which bifurcates the daily emission with a glance of dreamy voices from much distant lands. Nepal or, Bhutan also suited the dreamer. Life emanated with the feelings for sides, the priest and the professors. It proves the goriness about being-with-for-the self. Life reckons past side tracked observation. Who is by whose side? She was in her long march towards me, wholly more than thirty years waiting! What a fuss! I picked the smelly shit around eighteen. Life went on like a demarcated zone, out from the hole of tubes. Being -with –for-the self proves gorier now. Think  tank lubes were seated in our brain. I changed my Ids. Reformatory habit proved simpler notion for staying at-home with the filial bondage. We were not at-home, yet in the cosy field of home township staying awake for the brain drain, dollar dreams, nut shell of outgoing memberships syndicated allies of left redundancy. Philosophies wholesomeness proved man as solipcisistic reckoned   humaneliness, man as the primary objective. But the objectified species being exists without man’s intervention. A certain inbetweenness reigns the object-worlds belonging in the situations of delineated conditioning. Human habitat reflects this inbetweenness. I belonged thus. Messianicity came as a trope for survival. I was proved wrong in the capital. They made amends later. Who’s who admonished the mediocre syndicate for me and us. Certain inaptitude belonged to me in my vocation with the sciences. She came as big intervention. Lot of friends came down my way. Lot of friends regarded with good hope and precious gifts. I was in a merry-go round relation with my home bosses, father and mother. Now that I got my tyreing proven, I admonished a few local bums, settled with dollar syndicate. I didn’t appear to be friends to them before and after. Philosophy smiled like a child, still staying far. Someday there with be heaven on earth, with no routine check up for the lad stricken by heroine chandlery, or the people, with boredom of work load. Life likes to admonish the baddy. Art brings philosophy to tribunal, and in world full of lush meadows and people together, there will be no need for philosophers.

Jeet Bhattacharya
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