On the estuary

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At times like these, when the time flows like the great waters but my subconscious, like a wild weed is still half rooted with the rotten memories of the green leaves that ever adorned my frail tangles. I am caught at the estuary willing to leave, but the heart is delighted my stretching misery to my every fibre and not letting the roots of belief break through the ruthless chest of the dynamic river. I am stuck between ‘if it’s time’ or ‘the time has departed long time back.’ And withal the roots trust the selfish chest and aren’t letting me flow into the sea and through this painful estuary.

When I turn and glance upon the green days I am gifted with the ability to contemplate that my every word about the future fruit was certainly the indispensable truth. And the cause of my suffering is the unrevised decision of trusting the root rather than the faded leaf. My suffering will not be reciprocated. And the sea only nurtures it more to make my threads screech and cry. Yet mercy is far and nearer is death. The junction is long but the arm shall be stretched to the sea and here I am bound again at the estuary.

In this state when I lost the mouth but gained the eyes. It’s now that I see in the depth of the sea, there lie pebbles fighting with the rocks and I was just a wild weed, maybe just one of a many who couldn’t see and thought itself to be the source of life for some zeal of bubbles in the inanimate sea. The cerulean waters turned into smothering coals but I couldn’t judge as I was numb. Burnt me the water, such that no water could heal and all I need is the fire to take away the burn from me. And the I look back at my pity state with worry, and find the rooted threads trapping me back at the estuary. For a moment or two, I taste a drop of the sea and it seems like the river still burns through me. And now I am standing in still of the hurry but I don’t know if what I cravingly want is to leave the estuary?