Down memory lane, things are always jumbled up with one another, as spaces play tribunal with time ‘for-itself’.  This impure time from past corrugates to perceive the present as something which is not-at-home with itself. As if, it was in the past that all niceties of life arrived.  Children’s park watch the show of growing young, young as the hard fast soulful obligatory spectatorship of seeing myself as the messiah of next wilful change of society.  This wilfulness   claimed self –sufficiency in smoking up joints, without regret.  Stoned was my time, spent to beget the understanding of basic geometry as discovering new places.  It originated with the sailors inventive of places, long lost in oblivious historiography of otherhood.  One more cigarette for next ten minutes.  Our play theme was risky enough to bypass accidental death. Who cares about death amidst dozens of bypassed followers, and emblematic friends, close enough to hold the hand.  That doesn’t make joints free of cost.  Magellan navigated through us. One more trump for the idiocy, I left the porn show in my school bag.  Time is with time, not being at one with maths lesson.

The stillness of growing old also encapsulates the falling of rain drops, imperceptible in its oneness, yet, it drenches us. Full of jostling, can’t get through it, as the Latin Quarter is forbidden for a glass of rum. Yet, the climate suits. I owe myself some penny of loneliness. It evoked in me the road to challenge the philosophical paper-tigers. Life as it is, retailership of petty nuisances.  I stood past the present with a look backward.  Lin Biao’s merchandise and the sailor in me read the Hunan report.  Two bucks for the heroine seller.  Time bifurcates in a no-man’s land.  From India, China, to elliptical Prussia, I owe my dreams to all, at oneness with the crowd pull of generational gap.  Targeted dreams move from galore of seas through windy beaches, to pavements of tropical summer, and its sultry schooling of boredom. The non-arrival of Messianicity does reduplicate the last judgement, which occurs every day.  After was the hour of her Tierra del Fuego.

Jeet Bhattacharya
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