I always let people down when I take up the responsibility of their expectations. I even let down myself, often, honestly! Expectations are like itching, intensify manifold every time I scratch, and they always keep sneaking up on me. They are a ladder which keeps adding the rung I left behind as the next rung I must climb. It might have been a rat treadmill, but I do experience acclivity while I climb, and a free fall on slipping because there is no lower rung. There are too many metaphors and similes and each one is apt, precise. It is wonderful that we have so many, and at the same time, it is sad that we have none which is most accurate. Except shit, because 'shit happens', and no one else gives a shit.

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Our lives are strung like poetry. Now, a poem is peculiar in the nature of its being such that a poem may or may not make sense in parts. Makes sense? I'll elucidate - because I am writing prose. Prose can be explained within itself, poems can only be expounded in one of the many ways and that elucidation no longer remains a poem. While a prose would always mean one thing unless it is written with an intent of deceiving, a poem can mean something else a moment after it is written. Its meaning is just as ephemeral as the last smoke from a dying flame. While a prose freezes the intent of its creator for eternity, verse becomes eternity in itself by dissolving into time.

A new meaning is found every time the poem reflects from within its reader. This new-found meaning may be the antithesis of what the poet had in mind while he wrote it. For example, when I write that "chills run down my spine as I hold you near, dear", I might be alluding to the situational risk of our clandestine love being found out, or I might be trying to explain the waves of joy I am awash with. Or maybe, it is really cold and there actually are shivers running down my spine. So, while a fledgling might find joy in those lines, someone lovelorn might find in it a heartbreaking reason to wail over.

So, when Neruda writes,

"Tonight I can write the saddest lines."

and ends it with

"Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer,

and these the last verses that I write for her."

my mind construes meanings of varied hues - currently, being the one of catharsis.

Consider another one, this one a song, on a painter, for his painting and what he might have been trying to show. 'Vincent'.

Anyhow, I know one thing for sure, other than that the life is strung like poetry. Poems must not be explained, but explored all by self, while asking less or no questions at all. So, if I explain myself, I only explain a part of me while running the risk of occluding the rest of me. I refuse to afford that. Often, we lose out many opportunities of being better received by trying to make others understand what we do and why. Just be, be the way we are, because when we try to make them understand one particular thing, we eclipse many other things that we are by focusing our attention on that one thing.

Hence, Passengers are responsible for the safety and security of their luggage. I am just a ride. You are a ride too!

Crayon Pencils arranged as DNAs

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