Hunting under water!
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Hunting under water!
How they cried till they could no more! Tales of cut-throat woe reverberated in their hollow shells, endless, eternal.
“The inward fire eats the soft marrow away,
And the internal wound bleeds on in silence. (4.93-94)”
-The Aeneid.
Time and again, I like to come back to it because it’s a paradox, and facing it is necessary, if I hope to re-evaluate myself. It’s an expression of catharsis and a deep-seated existential angst at the same time.
The time of the year, when the trees attune themselvesĀ to the swan song of the summers, is upon us. Playing around the red-yellow spectrum, the leafs welcome the wails of winter.
Another Tea creation.