City Lights

How many people peopled the city? How many stories each of them inhere in life? How many streets are full with stories and anecdotes, of people, loving, or despicable? At what moment despite being one in million, one feels the estrangement of being; at what moment the concrete cityscape surpasses life, to make one solitary?  Are we really not at home in the city? Such painful oblivious masses! For they know not where they inhabit! God’s own abode must be city ‘in-itself’, for it never reaches it’s ‘in-itself ‘state. The city, always rhythmic, always striving for the new, the conness, ingrained as ‘for-itself’, being with for the other, thereness as cunning hereness.  Obsolete relations are bypassed with the help of bifurcating otherhood. Horizons prove worthy and helpful, delimiting our doorknob, which breaks for the othering self.  City’s awestruck galaxial platitude. One after another. Spatiality redeems in its horrendious Southern Globality.  At the innkeeper’s gate certain amusement awaits us, the dull immanent morbidity. Spaces occupy the distance, and then it delineates itself, through shrinking the subsidiary.  Others are called for making amends.  Making things uneasily cozy.  Time space continuum is broken, for the sky window locates dark tangent clouds. Very much a routine in this part of the globe.  Stringent torpedo like voices appear, time gets evoked, lengthy, yet passes fast.  Spaces get disturbed in its latitudinal belonging.  Breathing trouble calculates to being in ‘for-itself’ other. Hindrance of solipcisism.  But city‘s benignly self-centred status. It addresses all.  Impurities for ‘for-itself’s made easy.  Where are the tycoons of honours? My citadel wages war. Off-beat friendships of solitary rings, here and now.  By Jove, we scored high points.  

These passages of solar ellipsis prove to be signifying, as it tramples Romeo journey.  Who is for easiness amidst the uninhabited pre-cosmic ‘slurry footpath Auschwitchian ruminations ?’ Extinguishing factor depends on shit-hole parenthesis evoked by the slur.  My city, who is for you, solemnly building grandiose opera, aftermath, busy buddies, taking notes form nodal curvature of, in “for-itself” being. Impurities sustains it‘s own suicide drama, vertical line draws the spirit, ‘in-itself’, more timely than ever, yet circular vehicle position.  Non-situated admixture, timely, who’s who of urban locality.  Round trip through the globe, making geniuses prefer solved hitch-hiking for one and only, the many.  Otherized soluble for withering of self as an extension, which for not, nothings.  Spirit’s resurgence is to talk over, in half drain pitch Keats and Burroughs.  How can one be ever young?  Certainly not by half baked tin jam Cogito. Nothings are non-visual geometry.  What is in there? Aftermath?  Ringing the petals of ring. City forgives the viciousness of circular Geonomics.  Thousand stories afloat the tubes. Drooping eyes. Nerves give a zonal touch to million men, hibernating.  Me think of sleeping in her tidy well knit apartment in Tierra Del Fuego. “Where are the snows of yesteryear?”. As I miss her now, at this very moment, I forgive my own vacuous latitudinal life occurrences of spacing rhymes.  Life delimits it’s ‘in-itself’ domain. I cherish the city. It’s newness, odd or even.  Who really cares for the bifurcating events? I  don’t.

Jeet Bhattacharya
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