There’s a version of me. That wants to melt. Not like a molten lava cake served to you. But like a smoke. A melting smoke. You won’t get it. It gradually flows towards the destined slope where it touches the shore of the ocean and enters indistinctness.
Without a want.
Without a need.
Without a consent.
There’s another version too. The one that is visible. Shallow. That never melts. That stands like a rock. Can’t melt like smoke. Only – once in a while – when lava inside gets intolerable, it explodes and shakes the earth around – trembling while faking jolts – and is visibly melted in the sky with smoke. Making a point. Without a sound. Without any further jolts.
In between the two resides the existential crises of being. The philosophy of life.
That’s cringy sometimes.
Adorable other times.
With that… comes… the art… of spreading… love… and… venom. And venomous love.