We all have our seminal piece of work. It could be that odd-shaped poop you shit out one morning or the progeny you bring to the world. It could be a successful brawl with a rickshaw driver when you're down with diarrhoea or sitting with some useless thought looping over and over and over and over again. For each, his own.
Its all a big work of black magic. The permutations will favour us one day. We'll be satisfied. But well, it passes. Everything passes. There's an eerily unwavering pattern to the mysteries of the chaos. The God. Of bits and pieces.
Desire. Conquests. Shattered ideals. Illusions that are too proud to go to dust. Reincarnated perceptions. The Self. All words don't go onto make sentences just like all thoughts don't get into words. But what is important is that you identify the message, the broad message. One that you already know.
Peace.
