One Rainy Day

It was raining incredulously. The omnipresent gray instilled an unwanted melancholy in his ageing heart. He stood on his toes and tried to figure out what the outside world was like. The shade of green, the scent of damp earth. A single window was the only link between him and the globe. This was precisely the feeling shared amongst all prisoners. He was not in the mood to reminisce. The past was dead and wrenching out bygone-emotions would not make a difference.

He wanted to digress away from the point where all his thoughts converged. The sound of acrid rain was mirth to him once. He would spend much of his time staring out of his window, looking at the drenched earth. His room --reverberating with the noise of Muddy Waters. Rain played which cord in his inner mind was unknown to him. He would feel a twitch. He would weave another dream. Lost in his own solitude, he would conjure up the most profound human emotions. Bathe in them and ooze out satisfaction. Rain was his savior; it triggered his latent, unattended sentiments.

This caustic cell locked up his essential faculty to weave. He was here lying with all the scum his life has collected. The sound of the downpour was constricting. He knew this is transitory. He wanted to trap some of it for further consumption; but human science comes up with a preservation technique for those units, which are currency-dependent. Conservation of the monsoon sound was never necessary. Some filthy poets may have found it very amusing but poets are one pseudo group. The sound was no more heard. The deafening silence locked up the obscured lanes of innovation. He was one with the crowd.

This prison is specifically designed for this purpose. It makes you claustrophobic. Each day, you are cajoled to take a dive into the sea of animalism. Be one with the beasts. Demarcate passion from practicality. Then char the passion quotient. The null thus created is replenished with the right dose of superficiality.

Thus, he was captured. What captured him is inconsequential. What matters is his progress. His seed of desire to cherish certain impulses was ready to be destroyed. The plant, which the seed bore, is trivial; it may be an annoying weed. However, one can’t foresee his passion’s desperation. This weird seed may grow into something noteworthy in the reign of future. Therefore, its important to slay it. Another important aspect is the intellect. Intelligence is welcomed with arms wide open. Nevertheless, intellect is undesirable. The blithe intellect comes in the way of cliché practices. Normal minds would never want that. The contrast is a great peril. Thereby, they are locked.

The excessive materialism clubbed with a dash of swank is the ideal, which they are taught to follow. Vague sarcasm and vainglorious wit is distilled out of their existence. Winners are forged. The glitterati of socialites. Lust is made to trickle down from the top of their heads. Drenched in its holy flavour, men of the world are created. They know their survival strategies.

The certain fellow we are talking about was still serving his tenure. He was chained to the still numbness. He had a way out. A way that led to illumination. He wanted to challenge the system and knew to challenge the system you need to be in it. Regarding the bug of asymmetry and eccentricity, it is incurable. He was confident about that. He reinstated his lost vigour and ended the war. Apathy was his key. The key, which opened all the locked attics of realization. He was an evolved being, who rediscovered himself and escaped the clutches of lucid delirium.

When Love And Fart Collide

Compatriots, after thorough study of this paradoxical subject called Love; I concluded that the only thing that can near it is a fart. Fart, too, is a controversial object. Both of these can be classified into stark genres depending upon the impact they have on the surroundings.

The innards’ complementary work produces the low-pressure pocket of odoured air. The outside pressure being higher, the inner pocket of odoured natural gas whooshes into the atmosphere through a well cutout orifice. Thereby, increasing the temperature of the posterior. Proving the law of conversion energy. The mechanical energy of the gut is converted to heat energy of the fart.
Coming back to sound energy. The decibel level of the fart depends completely upon the pressure gradient. Now, the odour. It can be as mild as the serene smell of the vat nearby or as mighty as that of Kumbhakarna’s unclean loo (this assumption is made based on the amount of edible intake by this colossal hero). Based on the reaction time and nature of a “normal” homo-sapien, it can either cause a slight tremor or persuade someone to scamper out of the room.

Regarding Love, nothing new to be jotted down. Thereby we go straight into the analogies.

The acute low-pressure manifested in the utopian heart with the aid of some do-gooders is the primary definition of love. This low pressure tickles the vocal chords or hand muscles to explicitly proclaim its presence. The absence of orifice is the only noticeable difference. The visceral force during such a proclamation popularly termed as “proposal” is quite similar to that of a fart. Its intensity is relatively lower and the work vector travels in the opposite direction.

The vicinity of the Love-manufacturers result in the emancipation of heat. One fraction of the mechanical energy of the employees is converted to the heat energy and the remaining into sound. Love not only keeps you warm during winter, it also allows expressing the tenacity of your vocal chords. The more “heat”, the better is the quality of Love. We, thus infer that “heat” is a quality control factor of love. Cold Love-workers suffer from delusions. They are not actually in “love”.

Scent of love- What odour is to fart is scent to love. The efforts of two creatures of dissimilar chromosomal content have one huge task. The extent of their post-work scent. If the perfumes are smudged against each other overwhelmingly, then their love is pure. This is the purity control factor.

The more the pungency of fart, the better is the condition of the viscera. Similarly, when the male smells completely of the female, the quality of love is optimum. That’s what is hypothetical, in terms of science – ideal. Recent developments in this field may speak differently. Owing to the lack of substantial evidences, its still hypothetical.

P.S : This comparative study is purely based on “normal” facts. Any unintended exaggeration should be pardoned.

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All but her, sashayed through
Nothing to evoke guilt
When they fought over lime-stones
With a dash of filth

The profane Prussian hue
The prurient summer sky
The pharisaical turbid ale
The pragmatic’s divine vale

All but her, marched on
With the grunt of swine
Piqued by the nocturnal overtures
A faint fleeting green smile

Amidst the mob, did she stand?
Did the conjurer start his juggle?
Was the veneer red and bright?
Or did they mistake her visage?