Undoubtedly, a ridiculous and ludicrous textual arsenal snapped on this blog. But it isn’t a grueling ask to judder through it and escalate the count of my profile views. And running through it isn’t a peccadillo! Nothing alien that has been entitled and scripted in this passage, and nothing that would get the mind scratches buzz out to their business. Accordingly, a few claims of ‘crap’ and ‘shit’ that knit the strands of this particularity shouldn’t spin out leaving anyone astounded!
How does one configure the seeds of exhilaration for a Friday – where the groove is just a step away, and the ecstatic bewilderment is probably waiting in a corner to pounce at you – and that for a Monday – where all the jazzed shades of parties have annihilated and a virtual dull verve has once again looped in.
A Friday evening is prophesized to synchronize all the nerves and stack them into a bag of delight. Splashes of exhilaration are everything when the breeze flowing on the onset of an ‘incredible’ weekend strikes and at the same time, smears through my face, dumping my sorrowed lexis. For a fractional fragment of the population, its all about the groove of an indefinite stretch of gluing their eyes on the television screen, or for the others its all about sticking their feet on the dance floor. The sweetness of the posited fun awaiting at the other end of the day even takes water along the bitter route. Apparently, the reason why we (my batchmates) tend to bunk all our classes, lecture and practicals for the entire day on a Friday – to pay tribute to our ecstasy! (On the contrary, a bunk is like a desperate slurp that remains engraved on our tongues…and it has the privilege to strike down at any point in our daily schedules!)
Think you’ve had enough for Friday? Well, stick to it, because the spark with which a new week flags off already has water spilt over it. All of it in actuality stems out a dozen of hours before the dawn of a new week wakes you up…The exercise of waking up with the cry of the hen every Monday mornings is an absolute sin you cannot fight swords or retaliate towards. What’s more? It seems the time has slipped back by a couple of hours. Puffed eyes (and for the Sunday night party routers, ‘BLOODSHOT EYES’), a scoop of crankiness buttered all over, the head seemingly snatching the all the shackles of your body bulk… (Alright! Not that you cannot flesh yourself out of it, but Monday dawns are the ones where the darkest of nights evidently will not mind filling in their prioritizations over them!)
it is like a virtual cliff that we scale ourselves onto. The bottom (where the climb instigates from) adheres to the new week sparked, and crawling up that indefinite stretch doesn't really hypothesize tolerance to imperialize the territory. But the same crawl does possess the judder to ram throughout the extension in an apparent click of the finger - much like the scratch of gold among a pile of nickel!
now for laddering oneself from the zenith of that exhilaration till the sink. well, it sweeps out and reciprocates by a greater magnitude - just like those incredible magicians that dare to wipe out everything kept under your nose; the weekend scoots out at an immaculate blaze. I'm everytime recursively tangled in the shackles of the rubble at square one...
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