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Sleep by Saptarshi Bhowmick

It is mandatory to sleep between journeys when you become a daily passenger. Rising early, mending beds, and grabbing something to eat, he would swiftly follow the headlines of a daily newspaper. By the time he realizes nothing is exciting about it, the dear one will nudge him, reminding him how late it is to catch the morning train.

Thus, the journey began. For it had begun long before when he had decided to stand in the queue of becoming a daily wager. Then, having a preoccupied mindset, he ultimately conveyed the thought of being versatile. But it also dimmed before the effulgence of life's versatility.

Recalling his early childhood days, he sustains his breath as he starts running. Swiftly along the road like a pedestrian, he passes hundreds of creatures like him. With impatience written in their helms, they follow the same path every day without noticing each other. One outside of their cantonment might misunderstand them as the morning marathon racers.

But once they reach the train station, their mood shifts, and monotony often cradles their motions. With steps taken to enter the galvanizing aura of a populace, they mix themselves with millions. Like a river, they will drift now, towards the estuary.

Amidst these tiring ventures, one can relieve himself by sleep. This sleep is their last awaiting lapse, before they can finally reach their destination.

Though only now it ends the first half of their journeys. As the parting bell tintinnabulates, they catch the homebound seasonal train. He wonders if the monsoon was this fast when he visited Bengal.

Still, the end of the journey is not tedious at all. This time, not even the most unnoticeable things remain out of vision. He gradually follows the microscopic world before entering the gallops. Through the ghetto, the suburban streets become blurred now. The neon light from the distant shop illuminates mystery into these nocturnal suburbs. And suddenly, they visualize themselves in a world, forlorn and dejected. Failure, as they see in their apparitions, they imagine their lives as hollow. 

With no meaning in either end, both halves of their journey reach their prime this way. And what they get is a little reward of slumber.

Sleep: Text

Curating the solid imageries taken from real-life experiences, Saptarshi Bhowmick makes his sanctuary of sublime poems. The little praise he collects fuels him to write further. Saptarshi has been published in many International Magazines, including The Rainbow Poems, Tofu Ink Art Press, The Antonym, Wingless Dreamers, Sparked Literary Magazine, MOIDA, The Compass Magazine, SeaGlass Lit.

Sleep: Text
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