Prose for sy’s musical composition titled ‘Imagination’.

He lay curled on the now scorched grass, centralised on the large, borderless field— eyes shut and body still. It will be long before someone realizes that he has been there for too long to be taking a nap and too strange to be choosing such a spot under the intense weather for a slumber that seemed to be lasting for days on end.

It will take even longer before someone strides up to him warily and ask if he was alright— a question which we only pose to confirm our worst fears. Seeing no signs indicated to reply, he will then pick out a decent twig nearby and tap the man on the shoulders, gently— a respectable effort made to demonstrate that he is still being regarded as one of the living. He will then watch his chest for the rises and falls— of air permeating in and out of the lungs. Next, he will pace around the body to exhaust the last doubts he has before he emerges convinced.

And there will be the familiar long pause— the shifting of one’s weight on one leg and alternating every other breathe, hand circling the chin. Only after this, he will be sufficiently convinced to make a move. The person who comes with him after this is often a policeman.

He will then dial for the ambulance which the person usually forgets to consider while circling around the body aimlessly and stopping occasionally just like the person did. He will then answer a call about chocolate-coated doughnuts for tea while he paces around further. Then he will ask the same questions he’s been trained to ask for the last 17 years to which he already knows the answers to.

And they will chat about the weather and how the last rain was close to 2 weeks ago— like it is the most natural thing to talk about at the moment.

Perhaps.

And when the man is lifted up, the grass would still be damp beneath his body.

How curious.

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