An Infinitude of inexplicable emotions,
Is it not time that we pause,
Think out loud on some steel bench at some metro station,
Mesmerized by diverging destinations, sunbeams dancing in our realms of realities,
Too perfect, too precious, too much, perhaps?
As we cackle and crack, just observing these people obsessed with being players in this stage called world, offering us masks after masks, facades after facades, while we try, and try, searching for these splendid shades in our souls,
As the skyline splits, showering us with shadows and suspicions, and this world, stops, for us, as we stop running,
As we pause,
And whisper, of them words, so worthy, or those promises we keep, solemnly swearing to being up to no good, charming our way out of this chaos, in this tranquil transition, of twelfth,
As we stop, from this race of ambition we choose to run,
And wonder aloud, of those unsaid dreams of teaching in a playschool or owning a bookstore,
Of libraries and coffee houses, enticements of melancholic mountains, the immense seas seducing us to sail, temptations of our treacherous trance,
And dream a new dream,
In those few hours when we are not conscious of actuality, as we sleep,
And our words spill on this unbounded canvas, the brilliance of our minds blending, in this mutual madness,
In embarrassing moments of ecstasy, as our symphonies harmonize to form this song, which is just perfect,
And even as we run out of time, it’s okay as we walk together, breathing every breeze in, the morning mist, the magic of midnight, smiling at the setting suns, fascinated by flickering lights, captivated by them imperfect constellations, as we think out loud,
Searching for new metaphors for this metropolis, smiling at this turn of events, our selves bewitched in lives in a metro,
That when I sleep,
Of this reality, this priceless pursuit, so pure, kind, unreal, yet real.
Tell me this,
Are our cosmos to collide, as we try and fix these fragmented fantasies, hallucinations of happiness,
Trying to make sense of these visions in our heads, fancying, imagining,
Of Pumpkin pies and Hogwarts letters,
Just being happy, do you mind, though?
If, our infinities turn infinite, and dreams that were mine and yours, become ours,
As we pause,
( Or is it, indeed
//A not so lyrical ode. A dedication to perfection and preciousness, written at this metro station called Ramesh Nagar.