That day I had carefully observed the fountain at the crossroads,
It is not the destiny of the fountain to jump up and flow in the air breaking into tiny droplets,
But after being pressed with full force in the pipes and tanks,
coming out of the planned scope of a valve,
the water,
even the liquidity of the water,
has to rise,
upwards against the ground
And thus,
rising sharply in the air,
dispersing in the air,
falling down again,
it opposes the mechanism,
which presses its liquidity.
That is why,
Words do not come by themselves,
Somewhere inside,
An unwanted pressure on fluidity is exerted,
And words get employed,
For some good oppositions of life
For some such oppositions,
Rejecting which,
Is rejecting those bees,
Who collect sweetness from the whole world,
And bite as the last option of life,
Because they bite for the first and the last time,
Because after biting the bees die,
And when we accuse them of being biting,
They are dying,
And from their hives,
The sweetness of the whole world is dripping
There is another way of protest,
Like the bonsai in the drawing room,
which has survived till date,
infertile soil,
with just a handful of land in a small pot,
with a little air and a few hours of sunlight,
even after so many unfavorable possibilities of life,
we cut its roots every month,
but it lived,
it has been living for years,
it is not fortunate enough to get its share of forest,
its share of air and water,
maybe it won't be there in the future too,
and the more it lives,
the more valuable the bonsai will become, and the more it will grow and become strong,
its distance from its share of forest and air and water, forever.
It knows all this,
and even after knowing it,
it is slow and fighting,
it is not just a matter of hope,
it is a matter of living, of unconditional protest
Thank you so much for reading. Have a great day 😊🙏 @vikbuddy