He is bound by chafing ropes of dichotomized society—the howling screams of history assailing his resolutions while the serenading honeyed songs of promise and hope keeps him standing on his blistered feet upon the rumbling and tremoring rock that chips away every turn of the dial against the dispassion of the infinite might of universal storms.

He strains and pulls and kicks, the ropes taut and slack again and again, but the knot still holding fast while the screams grow louder and the songs turn sweeter with every crack of thunder and every boulder that falls away from under his feet into the depths of despair and disintegrating into a million fragments of lost dreams.

Fire spirals into black holes, stars die and galaxies burst into an array of floral patterns painting the vacuum into bright and illusory mesmerisms that glitters and transforms and hardens the heart and softens it.

The euphoric itch for an ecstatic pinnacle rises and soft hands move lithely, climbing up and coming down with careful grace, but then the distance grow between the future and the present, hiding comfort and love behind the deep dark veil of blackened pasts, even though what’s dark and gone had been revealed and it could not have bearings on what is to be.

He stops pulling and stops kicking, but the flame in his heart does not die.

Instead, he waits.

He is patient.

He waits for the universe to stop spinning, for the howling to cease and the tremors to stop, and he knows the days are coming, and he trusts the ropes would unwind on their own or with help and the honeyed voice would carry him to that enticing future where the rocky paths would follow soothing plains and all in all, love will prevail.

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