And the vision of your monochrome skin, still
rests, nestled in my eyes, flashing by as long as I breathe.
And while I question the countless needs and
desires springing in my mind, all I do, is sit with my camera, staring at your
well carved out arms,and the chest, that’s generous in its movement. Your
ordeal, carefully juggling between that of comfort and the astute sense of
nudity, pleases the mediocrity in me. You and I are sailing on the same boat.
That of insecurity with our greatest passion. In a parallel world, I am showing
a chutzpah that enigmatises you, spiralling you to such crazy senses of
unawareness of everything but my fixed gaze on you, which surprisingly puts you
in an easy comfort. And as the sheets scream out for our presence, we are lost
in a crazy world of you and I.
But that would be a parallel world.
Nonetheless. None-the-less.
And conversations wouldn't hang in the air.
"Could you turn yourself towards the
light a bit more, a little to the right, and tuck your stomach in a wee bit",
i would ask.
You would reply by taking me in your arms,
and unravelling all those unsaid words. Pictures will be taken. But the eyes
will be the lens and the mind the camera. They will desperately try to take in
every detail of your body, whatever the sparse room light would allow, anyway,
registering your bones and yur curves, so generously chiseled. As the tongue
will look for hidden answers to the countless doubts presented, the mind will
make countless images, that can be said in words and that alone.
Images and words have a very sanctitious
relationship. The words alone can mention the emotion behind every bland image.
And you are no bland image of mine.
And there shall exist another parallel world. No judgements passed on me spending all my nights with you, and no
questions raised as to our definition. We shall survive by our own meagre
means, and I shall be a scandalous wild beast with my camera acting as my
sexual aide and my ukulele playing its own ugly tune, the story of my life, and
you shall approve of it all with no questions raised. In some corner of the
world, i shall still capture your nudity, celebrate its rawness, with you
sprawled in front of me, to give me your all. The bedsheets will have us,
eventually, alright. And the camera will sing its own story. You and I will
make sense of Simon & Garfunkel songs, feast on their wilderness, and often
run away from maddening eyes, into the wild that awaits our primal need to be
asocial and uncivilised, thrive in dirt and bodily need.
The camera shall always follow in tow, with
its sinking battery signalling the stress to get back to anomaly, to the city,
that reeks of death and hypocrisy.
And under the glaring morning light, that
silences even the wildest beast of them all, I shall proudly show you, you,
through my camera. Your appreciation comes as a gentle caress on my nipple, and
we run again, deeper into the forest, desperate to never get back, scared of
losing our way, and gleeful for having lost our way, momentarily. And as your chest
heaves with childlike adventurous pleasure, I start touching your body without
giving you a moment’s rest. There is no camera this time, and the light,
rushing through the narrow openings in the great dome of greenery, acts as a
beautiful source of illumination, beautifying little specks of your skin,
revealing, just what I want to see. And
a globe that makes the world look upside down is your prop, and your nudity is
that erstwhile strength that binds our souls. And as star light slowly tries to
fight for its presence, we realise it’s time to let our souls free, and dwell
over the beauty of our own little life, that exists in our head.
In reality, we’re a job, you and I. We might
just be coming with a termination letter. Or we might just stick around.
P. S. An image clicked by me. Not re-usable.
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