The Brewing Ink Doesn’t Think

The more I sit, the more these words don’t move. An indecisiveness to fix upon a word in this ocean of synonyms is prominent. It eats up the work before even getting cooked. Oh, cooking I must say is solely to please the consumer. All the spices in proportions are for the palate of appreciation. Similar to the words that authors cook with. The demand to which these spices are added. Markets, as they call, have different tastes and preferences. In specificity is a commune targeted. The tastes aren’t known anymore, but rather shaped. The conventional yet a working belief of targeting markets would always keep them prey. Prey to the thoughts that the artists display. The artists display an illusion in its most realistic form. But, prey unlike a hunter sticks to the stories that look heroic . The real gets replaced by a reel. The exclusive feel experienced  by the individuals of a theater hall filled with hundreds is illogical in its own way. How can such inclusiveness bring about an exclusive feel? Probably because the reel has shaped a new reality in the viewer’s mind. The screened story has gone through different lenses to tell a modified story for each & every individual’s perception. Each story that holds the perceiving character on a pedestal. The validation of being at the top. The obsession of being at the top. Even when the gravitational logic pulls me down to ground, validation won’t stop me fly. The ecosystem on ground looks too trivial compared to the desires I glide with. Every flap has gotten me higher and higher. The temperatures have dropped, the pressures have gotten weak, yet the flight doesn’t stop. Gliding has gotten easier, the sight of the ecosystem has become tougher. BTW, I haven’t forgotten about the crop and its soil, but rather wanted it to suit my heights, hence vertical farming. It should help me glide a few more years. At the exhaustion point, the pilot falls free. A feel of drop, unnoticed until kissed by the ground. In fear of pain the pilot dies midway. The body lands safely into a pit of many similar successful bodies that rested in tombs. Right beside the runway of many young pilots steering through the stories of “success” in a similar manner. I should probably have the ink think the next time it flows. Until then, don’t let your brew go cold!

Work to think for the thought to work, until coffee slays its effort/thought less quirk?