Sinking Upwards and Rising Downwards

Around you is brightness, a blinding glare that assails your wrinkled frame like excitement; as a matter of fact, it is excitement in its most unhidden perception. You close your eyes and there  is an overwhelmingly striking orange. You are flying beyond the clouds and space and now here you are staring at the sun. Time passes. The orange seems distant like rays of the past, but it is not as though the brightness had vanished; you see it, you feel it. It is soothing, more pleasant yet you also find it habitual, less animal. And that is a story of how downwards you rose.In the blink of an eye the scene encompassing you, changes, you are blinded yet again. However, this time there is profound darkness so utterly devoid of  light it seems inescapable; as a matter of fact, it is inescapable in its grandest perception. Your eyes are open yet they feel  closed, it feels as though you suddenly plunged into the ocean floor. In a matter of seconds there appears in your sight, which up till this point saw nothing but uncertainty, a maddened frenzy of colours; colours like none other. A splash of the night sky’s blue, an explosion of neon soot, a puncture of the deepest purple. Time passes. Those colours gradually seep away and out of their shadows come up shoals of fish and cliffs of algae.

The darkness still lingers, but it is simply a shade more certain, a shade less real. And that is a story of how upwards you sunk.

You are you, a part of a nightmarishly blatant reality and a dreamy, exhilarating escape from it  equally. And thus, explained is your uniqueness which, detached, is omnipresent, but during the venture astray gives rise to disparities that are immeasurable. The surface, like sunrise and sunset, was a reverie. A state that perhaps perfectly, and I quote, told the tale of two cities.You were on a beach.

Bob Dylan appeared in your dreams each night and so every weekend  you sought answers from the rising tide and it’s urging companion in the salty ocean winds.

You were a student. The clock, with its dreamy voice, had ticked your parents to sleep and as usual you sat perched up on the edge of the window shooting soundless guns and shivering in voiceless laughter. You were a market vendor, an inherited occupation of a long ancestral testament. Much against the will of your single mother, which you had diligently followed hitherto, you had recently spent all the paise you had scraped together on the building of your own 6-inch theatre.

~Vamadeva S - A Level