Figment of Imagination, a lucid dream, or thin air, what are we?

In the deepest realms of my artistry, imagery and perceptibility a bare void reaches out to me asking to be named, defined, reasoned and heard. Homo Sapiens are probably Earth's proud race in the galaxy, with 'beauty' and 'brains' unmatched in the entire universe. However, aliens might visit anytime, and prove their existence with a peek-a-boo. Then, I shall rephrase my school of thought.

The role of subconscious is to rekindle the repressed, lost and meek desire speaking about the not-so- obvious, which floats in your mind like a feather making its way down to the ground. Let it float, the sight must be so alluring. Well, this uneasiness is a good harbinger, which calmly grows into a thirst so outspread and extensive. The wings of this curiosity flatter the senses and peek all day long into your head.

Similarly, experiences are capsuled in me, not deep down but gushing like waves to the shores of reality. Defining the wave, they ask me the most meaningful question. What are we? Where are we?

All this persisting and breathing is meant for what? And what will be the reigning truth after our departure? Who is going to vouch and for what?

What is death? Another journey or disposal? And even if it is disposal where are we disposed off to? And if we are meant to be disposed, why are we made into such a beautiful subject to the world which is eventually made to have carnal desires. Just to die, perhaps.

I wish to connect with my source, it is like the monstrous overgrowing hunger that is set to engulf. Talking about the source, mother is known to be the earthly source, who being a human too will have no answers to divinity of our being. So I need a preponderant origin, antecedent, the mother of humans.

Thinking my questions to be rightful, I release them into the world, feeding my curiosity I seek answers and musings to wrap up a box with a ribbon and a convincing resolution. It might not seem such a big deal to many, as the worldly vicious web squeezes out the time and space to zone out into your own self with a little hint of detachment. But I like to do it as it revives me, and so I wish to respect and pamper my meddlesome-ness.

With the evolution of time, humans have become self-sufficient, result being focus on the self. Nobody likes being ordered unless you are earning your bread and butter.

Now, let us understand the basic living style, work, money, success, pleasure, children, death, and multiple emotions, which become turmoil, as we are churned in.

So I require to know the seed or the creator whose obligation has been bestowed upon us (obligation of survival), why can't we just opt out like we do for things which we fail to understand? The basic pull or push to work is growing stronger, which is a subject to difference for each person.

But what is the pull or push to live—dying our own death?

I could have gone a little poetic, but that's the fun of being blunt, it hits you right in the head.

Going upon musings, poetry and philosophies, I have garnered answers to my curious questions but I have remained unconvinced so far.

Well, maybe the mystery has its own charm.

It appears like Medusa’s plot, a king's random order, the teasing or kindling of the senses to create a maze of bones and adorn it with flesh.

Subconscious can be a bed of thorns initially which many try to sideline, but it pops out like a joker in your dreams. Unlikely, I like to nurture it, feed it as it is my feed. The mutual relationship has gone beyond the valley of thorns into the viper's nest and now finally rising upon my face, dripping with elixir but my thirst seems to be a greedy beast.

The curse of the warm blood is called fatal and unlikely, but what worse denunciation can be than being alive with some reason not known.

Many find reasons during their beautiful tenure of some odd years but not anything concrete. Everyone finds their reasons and goals depending upon their own set of brains, so opposition is stark because the brains are not replicas. We all own a distinctive aura and understanding.

Just to pin-prick a little deeper, do you remember yourself taking birth? If not, then who knows you are not just lucid dreams, but a creatively pregnant loaded with desires, night-rise dream?

It is point blank, which is mixed like oil and water with enunciation from philosophers.

The angst is to feel helpless to reach out to the divine source of 'ME', 'YOU', 'HER', 'HIM', it is like a gamble, star gazing into your dream. I can be proud about the fact that I might be claimed as insane because it is just a word in the dictionary evolved as civilizations evolved.

Sanity cannot be defined as it lays its widespread wings upon the bed of sky casted end-to-end, it might be the sister of infinity, one never knows.

If all this has managed to disturb or move you a little, I would be really happy for contaminating you with my curiosity. Art is supposed to disturb, move, jolt and rise.

Just when you recognize your inertia, you are subjected to spinning...!

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