let this be said of garish kindness:

it moves the little dipoles in me

turning me into an orientation

that might be called guilt.

in a rut-rote routine-rotting world

pseudo-yuppies, who lullaby their infants

with cocomelon, want nothing from art

but relatability or escapabality

nothing in between complex and otherly.

silly sentimental scenes break me down

while real news of war, rape, genocide

brings nothing but stoic it-is-what-it-is aloofness.

now art is the only way i feel anything anymore

words married to images by movement

art as feelers that guide a blind dasein

through a world so woke it's sleeping.

at moments your life flashes, not before your eyes

but inside them, like the pulsating core of as-it-is

a seed of the substance that sources are made of

so that you see only yourself atop the hill

until you realize you're so alone that there's no hill

you're just a mote of life drifting as a symptom of error

in the gradient-differential of the fabric of brahman.

let this be said of life: o' mistake, go hide

before entropy's autocorrect finds you and clicks undo.

~ ajay

27/7/2022