Subliminal Spree

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Lights streamed across with intimidating lure, leading to shimmering spheres of smouldering luminosity, a diaphanous abstractness in study, ever shallow in obscurity, as doltish as iniquitous temerity would have it, without a trace of the designer who assertively had this experience engineered for him.

He swam through nothing, approaching the untoward nowhere, with thoughts of her shriveling his patience, rendering him as raw a form of tortured helplessness as any. He fought, unrestrained, unbridled, scintilla of memories sparking about caverns of specious bondage, pellets of neuron armaments refusing him his utilitarian sense of perception, with the collapsing walls of his own heart throwing him back to the rim of a pit with a depth that proved fatally vertiginous in contemplation alone. He didn’t want to fall further, but there he was, gripping onto moist gut, every toe of his digging deep into the uncompromising suture of cells, trying to find balance in a space of conflicting inferences.

A grasshopper tripped into view and spoke with a sepulchral tone, one so tough that it reverberated evidently about the frame of its slender body, threatening to disengage its jointly attachments.

“When you hit rock bottom emotionally, you end up building a civilization of safe hopes down there, finding solace in the rather invulnerable consequences of a life lived in eternal, but endurable, torment. You have yourself and your art to assure the self with meaning and to stand as an epitaph that answers to the voices in your head when there is repressed anger held at stake following all the downfalls and distress you so effortlessly seem to gravitate in.”

His feet, he noticed, were pressed against the marshy fills of a plane extending to the far reaches of a horizon in curves. The shining lamp he held in his hand fought against the darkness born out of ignorance and showed him what lay to be grasped from the glimmer of stagnant streams that stenciled the miseries of his mind onto the quagmire grounds before him.

A rampant desire to quench his burgeoning thirst encroached upon the prioritized list of his actions and crowned itself at the very terrace of his instinctive lure. He turned around and there it was, on a table made of the densest air, in a pot toughened to stand the lowest of temperatures, a pint of water so pure that the sun maneuvered out with benign partiality to keep it from drying up. Stretch his hands to the pot, he did, but the door by its side burst open, smashing into smithereens the apparatus of his crave. He had no moment to expend in despair, for the woman who walked in spared no time averring about the inevitability of her intrusion, but ruthlessly spurned what she reckoned as frivolous and began talking.

“People like us, we can only palliate the broken spirits of the world. The throbbing heart of its art and science, along with their philosophical implications on human kind, through arterial channels that transpose tangentially the purpose of men by every passing minute of every single day, has but one thing in common – the desperate desire to cling unto transience, for intransigent immobility pushes people down the slide of impatient digression, only to let them return with an undertone of hubris and extremely cautious receptors to disturbances of the slightest variations.”

“People thrive not to innovate, but to give the impression of innovating, in a nightmarish moor of a society that functions without a moral purpose, without a desire for individualist excellence in the myriad fields of human development.”

“Thinking otherwise, or to find oneself lost in incoherence results primarily from a circuitous promenade through generic grooves set by a world without sense; one that doesn’t understand the sheer grand scales of the amazing absolutes and its extended divisions.”

“You see, the collective mass is a juggernaut that destroys all of that which stands in its way of implanting erroneous ideas among bland beaus of authoritarianism. Our incongruous, inconsiderable, inconceivable and incompatible group of blighted voices find the crowd insuperable, but to give in would corrupt the cruxes of what fine journeymen we’ve taught ourselves to be; to remain rooted to your goals, to abolish kowtow, to stay not as passive travelers, but daring explorers; not a reporter, but the reportable; not as samples, but an integrated whole.”

He blinked.

In a room filled with shades of xanthic brightness, he saw, in a mirror erected by twin hyenas, his older, weaker and mindless self, with a terrifying onset of xerosis defining every feature of his. Death was imminent, the light at the end of the tunnel a memory to relive in enthrallment, and rebirth the only motive for his sidereal concerns.

“I never think of them in the manner of association you seem to relate with reality.”

The rabbit with the monocle was characterized by a droll demeanor as it spoke, but he was in no mood to amuse himself with its risible specifics. He sat down on the cotton couch and listened.

“What is wrong with the intemperate act of pursuing our goals, to outgrow the incarcerations that hold in the intimate wishes and desires of a man, letting him soar high in the yielded terrains of unaccustomed hopes and colossal undertakings?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but realized to his dismay that he had no mouth to speak with. The hole seemed to have been effaced by the erasers of supercilious beings. Essentially speechless, he remained silent.

“Men have become indefatigable not over their morals to indulge in an intemperate act of eternally pursuing their intuitive goals, as they ought to have been and be, but over the taught horrors of an impecunious existence that threatens to rob them of what the mass has, with innocent guile, decided to classify under and redefine as the requisites for human comfort. The unendurable idea of living a simple, lone and silent life shows just exactly what is wrong with the misjudged notions men have about self sufficiency.”

There was a scream, one so familiar that his heart faltered upon identifying the source. Pain, with a promise of liberation, anxiety with an assurance of ample aid, brilliant strands of cinnamon, soft cheeks, opal eyes, and a husky shrill.

He gasped as his subliminal swirl of subconscious cannonades established its dominion, and slipped him into a wakeful slumber of nondescript dreams.

Aravind Deepak
The Unconditional Maverick

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About Aravind Deepak

Literature scientist, philosophical detective and dream architect. A fan of productive discussions as opposed to confabulations on the importunate and scrutinized perils of daily life, I row up the stream of life, oblivious to the idiotic melodrama infecting Spaceship Earth. E-mail: aravinddeepak@hotmail.com Twitter: https://twitter.com/ADTUM Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheUnconditionalMaverickLiterature scientist, philosophical detective and dream architect. A fan of productive discussions as opposed to confabulations on the importunate and scrutinized perils of daily life, I row up the stream of life, oblivious to the idiotic melodrama infecting Spaceship Earth. E-mail: aravinddeepak@hotmail.com Twitter: https://twitter.com/ADTUM Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheUnconditionalMaverickLiterature scientist, philosophical detective and dream architect. A fan of productive discussions as opposed to confabulations on the importunate and scrutinized perils of daily life, I row up the stream of life, oblivious to the idiotic melodrama infecting Spaceship Earth. E-mail: aravinddeepak@hotmail.com Twitter: https://twitter.com/ADTUM Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheUnconditionalMaverick

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