By Ankur Singhal
The strings that bind, welcome to the show! Rise and grind
striking the chord of life — a symphony of creation,
a melodious prison for the soul, an existential cacophonous composition.
A prison of self, a prison of existence — an ocean of nurtured emotions, a plethora of sentience.
The bind is a paradox in itself.
The very mortality which guarantees my freedom from this existential prison
is the very source of the quintessential desire to be a prisoner forever in this continuum.
Like a puppet, the soul clinches the ties that bind.
Is it the fear of the unknown, or just an evolutionary survival instinct?
The soul that suffers the most is the first to cling to existence when it sees the ties unwind.
Is it just the cost of freedom, or just a reflection of my selfish desires?
Some strings may be eternal, some may be the pyre of my constructed emotions.
The pyre has run out of fuel — the self can see the suffering of the soul as its charred self dries.
The smoke has cleared, though the embers still rise.
The strings are weakening.
Nothing binds me to this accursed world now. The strings are weakening.
The soul craves the venture into the abyss — away from light, and away from darklings.
The ties that bind, the ties that bind.