Purple passage, a poetic prose.

I always get caught, like a fledgling, to the snare of thy own thoughts and vacillate between nothingness and abundance, defeating thyself from being victorious yet being unable to reign over like a Maharaja over thyself. The appalling degree of logic inside thy humble bubble of consciousness aspires for something more than a mere victory. Logic, logic it was and it is no music. The cause for the evolution and devolution of thy thoughts. Every rise is followed by an equal ebb keeping thoughts far from materialisation making thee feel hapless. Expression defied I feel, though I've struggled to bring out one. A sweet burden it seems to me at times. And I end up falling in love with it. More the words more is the love. Paradoxically, the sentences become smaller as I go on indicating thee the struggle has become more rigorous and complex. And so I elaborate it oscillating between a poem and a prose, a poetic prose rather, alternating between the heart and the mind and carry the contradiction with an accustomed wonder. Cool breeze soaked in a drizzle escapes into my window and unsettles thy hair prompting thee to walk out to thy terrace and partake in the soundless opera of nature. Dark clouds had set the background for the dance of colourless darts of water to a tune set by the winds of high mountains making thee carry the contradiction but with a new wonder. It is always nature, an eternal wonder, that pacifies the logics-of-compunction of thy silly mind and tells thee it is not victory, as there is no such thing, but, it is the enlightenment with a selfless love, is all there is...and that probes my vacillation to strike a balance with the opera. The snare has disappeared and my thoughts have become lines in the opera as I listen to them with wonder!