‘If a poet falls in love with you,
you can never die,’
I read somewhere.
But what if he burns his art, O foolish stranger?
What if he burns his poems?
Isn't that the most painful
kind of death there is?
You get a small taste of immortality,
before you're stripped of it;
before you're forced into being a simple
mortal,
who'll never be
remembered by anyone,
all over again.
I see nothing worse than that.
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Adhish Gupta
As I walked down the cobbled street, I didn’t realise when muscle memory took charge, and I stopped before a dying hibiscus. The sanguine strands of each of the five asymmetric petals yearned to show through their unique individuality, how perfect their imperfections are; its pistil was still intact, and the pollen strands were still capable of producing an offspring- I chuckled: lifeless as it may be, I thought, it could still give life. I was running late for a meeting, so I had to rush, but right before I left, I noticed that the step I was
about to take, would have obstructed the path, which had been idealistically been appointed by the ants to reach their little hill, crushing seven of them in the process; naturally, I forced myself to turn to a longer stride…
I hadn’t yet expected that muscle memory, from that day, would evolve to create art.
