Picturesque.

It happens before you know it, like the yearning to start your conversation with a metaphorical implication, using “like” to soothe and iron the mirror’s (whoever’s listening) likings. It happens because the worldview that you have been gathering is oscillating to a conforming people’s view like a hallucinatory trip almost everyday, punctually and almost consistently like a pendulum in vacuum. It happens because of a fundamental fear of slipping away like what you feel when you stand at the periphery of the sea, when the beach sand’s slipping away to the tune of the sea while you obey gravity and in this juxtaposition of existence, the byproduct fear, overestimates the sea’s presence beyond and submit to a horizon that makes you breathless.

The comfort found in cynicism could be compared to a harmless nicotine addiction. It bothers you to always find ground. While the ground is common to all, in its own way it controls, pulls and ties you to itself. In the metamorphosis of intellectualization this becomes a constant dilemma whether to cross this beautiful brook called charm using a swing called the wit.

Now, are you game enough to use the swing?, is the primordial question.

Ages after, the spirit of game has been comfortable and almost blissfully enjoyable that the swing swings so low almost kissing the brook, gently, passionately, curving ripples and making love through design. Patterns emerge.  An intention exists. The sportsman has become a traveller in a palanquin.

It has become picturesque.

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