A conversation

"How does it feel actually?"

'Nobody knows.'

"Not even Zimmerman? Surely. you are joking Mr Know-it-all?"

'No, I’m not. He can make you feel the heat, and the rain, and the snowfall, and the seawind. But, he, even he, doesn’t know the feeling. He can create the feeling, suffer from it, that’s all.'

"Don’t you, I mean, surely you do know about it? That feeling?"

'You think it’s fun?'

"I don’t, believe me. When the breeze ceases to blow over the face of deserts, and the whole becomes part, I feel a sudden chill, and wonder if that is the feeling. And, then, then, the chill fizzles out like contaminated water down the gutter. Once again, I become extraordinarily chaste, wonderfully vacant."

'I see. Sort of cloud in pants, you are. Warm and delicate and plastic to the point of humane reality. Genteel.'

"Oh, I hate it when you pass on these snide remarks."

'Really?'

"Not again! Like you, I also crave to have this feeling, I want to explore it’s exclusivity. But, look here, I’m only human. After waiting like a dying dove on gunpoint, when I realise that nothing has changed, and that it is not dark yet, I feel a strange and strong sense of harmony. Well, kind of."

'To understand even the contour of this feeling, you need to be vulgar, and sinful, my dear. Lovely pieces of rhetoric find it not. Jump into the abyss of dead metaphors, fondle every dead word, breathe the smell of restless lines that no one even dares to listen to, and you’ll get the basics. Try the other highway, rather than the diamond-studded one, see the dried bones talking with each other in powdery moonlight, get battered by love under the naked wonder of lightening. Perhaps, after all these moments of pure agony, and occasional ecstasy, you’ll suddenly touch the nerve-centre of that feeling. Until then, get off. I gotta clean my ears.'

"How does it feel actually?"

'Nobody knows.'


And the conversation goes on like before………….