The Recoiling Whip

 

Poetry and art, they say, are not to be explained.

They are to be understood and interpreted as the viewer pleases.

If explained, they cease to be poetry or art as they turn into a prose that is as much a narrative.

Life too swings on this balance - on one hand when logic strikes and makes us see everything as right and wrong, left or right, black or white; while on the other, we see life as an emotional essence that needs to be felt - unexplainable and uninterpretable. 

Then there is also the grey line between that black and the white... the crossroads at which we often st(r)and. Where pieces of the puzzle we try to solve, the riddle that we must resolve, the maze through which we fix our gaze - all seems to fall right in place. This is a God forsaken land where only truth triumphs, where one is true to their own self, where the exchanges that happened did so in the quiet darkness of our souls - the mutely comfortable point where remotely isolated truth gets segregated from the bashful lies - even if it cannot be proclaimed loud. The fantasies - implored and explored - every thought that could possibly bring an unstoppable mischievous smile. The facade.

Companion is a partner with whom your secrets are safer than it would be if it were with you; a person who judges not yet is excited and looks forward to hear and share about what one experiences; a soulmate with whom one can share thoughts and thoughtlessness as if one were speaking through a mirror. Mirrors are fragile and tend to break... still, reflections are as needed as a companion. When the journey into the next wilderness continues, away from explored and more accustomed paths, the vulnerability of being broken (yet again) does creep up like a recoiling whip. Yet, it moves...