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The Cube

A person is by no means identified as a maestro even when he is infused with every creativity one can grasp, words, music, paints or crafts. Once being depraved of all these, what is left of that person is a question to be begged. I am now sitting in a room four-walled by white blankness. Nothing blotted onto those walls but sheer palpabaleness. I feel things through my sentience when nothing stands in the way to juggle with the vision. Everything is nullified into its bareness.

I feel I can be cooped up in this room forever. Other rooms are hemmed in with canvas blatantly-sprinkled over. Noises blaring out of every line and every shape. Their inhabitants are convinced of their superiority. Milk cows scuttering across the floors whimpering like a weanling baby.

Nevertheless someone is weeping in the corner of my room. My eyes penetrate the white screens but do not reach the one who cries. The muffled sobs are titillating yet at pains to raise my sympathy. Something far away tumbles in, the sea, washes over the room smothering the sobs, the tears. That person is also smothered, beads of tears mingle with that of the brackish water. My equanimity echoes with that of the receding water.

A cat slithers in and proclaims that the outside is speckled with misnomers. I relocate my eyes on its blotchy face and struggle to disguise the inopportune incredulity. Misnomer of what? The cat blinks its translucent eyes and preens its furs. A stray feather is visible on its carpet of softness. The cat maintains its body’s beauty.

A wilted flower I hold in my hand now. I try to caress its petals but they touched like plastic. The bud I idly stare into reflects thousands of eyes of mine. I swirl the flower but it never unravels like it should be. It poises between my trembling fingers pretending to be wilted. Close to my pounding heart I hold it.

It is only preordained when another rush is heard. The blank walls vibrate with concurrence. I close my eyes and mutter no more, waiting for all these to be completed.

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