You cant read stories if they’re not on 480 by 800 pixels of digital screen and an empty comment section beneath. Picking up a book is just too much to ask because at some point between two years ago and chapter 13 did you realise that the words aren’t real anymore and that they’re just…..there.
No, words only exist when they’re coming from character XYZ without quotation marks before or after, kicking you where it hurts, because until he’s feeling worse you’re not feeling at all. So, the skies are ablaze at dusk before the unpainted pots are drowning in what you think are the last showers of the season.
We waited for the rain to stop, but were still drenched by the end.We laughed and screamed to the care of no one else. Your eyes are beautiful under clouds hiding sunlight, which is when I first paid attention to your beauty.
Its a pity its only a deceiving mask veiling the ….misery you hide underneath it.
I was sat among upturned flower pots waiting for the rain to stop, still drenched by the end, where we had once laughed and screamed to the care of no one else. I’m pushing metaphors into words which mean nothing. My words are abstract while my paintings are torn if they are not real enough. The smell of coffee which follows your ghosts in my house is strong. I’m painting on the last pages stained by the filter-decoction you had made, but you’re not dead yet, or gone yet, so why are you in third-person?
Things were supposed to be fine, not the fucked up mess it is now. But then, it always has been and I just didn’t know. Its disappointing when I can’t let the watercolours run as they should, I turn them into poster-colour pretenders.I can’t help but wonder if I’ve forced you to do pretend, my same. Ah, I’ve found it – ‘watercolours pretending to be poster colours, like you pretending to be fine when you’re really not.’
You’re awake listening to the dogs barking on the night a small proportion of the usual traffic dares to use the highway on a bandh. Chaos, like under the tectonic plates of the earth 16 storeys too close to you, is threatening to pierce through your skin. There’s an itch left over from yesterdays bout of extreme energy. That, and an exhaustion you cannot feel, one that elusively tugs on the insides of your eyes and behind the knees.
It was funny, because it was merely screaming Beatles lyrics at the ceiling of an empty house. Somewhere in that addled mess in your head, you hoped to god the delusion of content lasts, but god doesn’t arrive for another week until kali pujo, so its gone before the hour ends.
Its back to weariness in your elbows.
You should feel either action or slumber call, but neither does. You hate this.
The mosquitoes in your head nip at your skin; they’ve been at it since Thursday and show no signs of retreat, especially not if you have to go and hang the clothes your in the veranda tomorrow as well, running across the doorway before the spider twirling in its web full of unfortunates sees you.
But that’s tomorrow.
Normalcy returns with a headache and a tossing in your chest that had run away with the drums and into the lake with the clay idol, now nothing but brown at the bottom of water.