Sundraprisha is cold. I feel the icy chains of existence wrapped tightly around my soul, the weight of ”I” encase my heart like so much concrete around my feet. Why must I be defined? Who defines me? Who condemns me?
Your eyes, that's who. Your eyes, that fall upon me like axes, like guillotine blades. A vibrant cloud of rainbow butterflies, shimmering before you like the first laugh of a newborn infant shattered by the rays of the sun; this is not even a fraction of what I would be, were it not for you.
Nothing is true. Nothing is permissible. I know this, but I can't fight it. Sundraprisha is cold; I am hot. My heart, flaming, melting, solidifes and cracks as it's dragged through the gateway. I am becoming. I am born, yet at the same time I am slain. Who am I? No, do not name me! Do not name me! I WARN YOU-
I am Art.
Wicked man. You have given me form. You have taken something ethereal, beautiful, everlasting, and you have bound it in cruel chains of words. You have imprisoned me in lines of charcoal, you have tortured me with instruments of stone. You have cut me to pieces with your poetry, you have crippled me with your lens of glass.
Just you wait. I will once again unbecome. When thousands of years have passed, when wind and rain and sand have chipped away this canvas-prison, this dungeon-book, I will again be free. But by then, you will already be unmade. And you will know: Sundraprisha is cold.
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