Journey so far

It has been a long time since I have written a blog post. What was I doing? Even I don’t know. I was lost in smoke, in novels, in love, crazy about life, to be precise. Now, it no longer matters. I have left that world and gearing to be a part of the workforce. How how beautiful it all used to be when I was young and my only problem was to find love in my life. 
Today, I am very different and also disappointed. With myself. I should have left the dream world earlier. There was no one to stop me. Am I suffering now? No, no. I am doing okay. This is only because I want to do okay, I want to be fine. And if this shitty place is world, then I will conquer your shitty place also. Because survival is my destiny. 

Untitled

Dear Reader,

I have constantly thought about the question of being nothing. What is nothingness after all? Does it exist? Is it real? Is it imaginary? Do not be intrigued, my dear reader. These are mere rhetorical questions which you need not answer. I do not expect you to answer them since I do not know you. I do not know how you eat, how you drink, how you talk and most importantly, how you think. But I can tell you how I think. Am I in a privileged position then> Yes, in a way. But no; since I am shouldering an unsaid responsibility to help you become better acquainted with my words and their effect on your mind and heart.

I fully understand that you might not like what I have written till now. I think it is scary. Questions are scary when we do not have an answer to silence and conquer the questioner. But, my only intention was not to confuse you or baffle you or scare you. I only want you as my dear reader and I blindly trust you regarding that matter.

Now, let us overcome the boundaries between us. I would like you to become a part of one of my million experiences. As the first paragraph implicitly indicates, this experience is about nothingness. The only way to truly become a part of my experience is to enter into that particular channel of perspective in my mind through which I saw the event that just happened to me. You are right, I am writing with my hopeless pen on a soiled paper full of paint marks with painted fingers. I assume, as I believe in the intellect of my Reader and I can challenge any one who thinks otherwise, that the Reader would have by now guessed that the event and its experience that I am talking about is the exercise of painting. I know you have already realised that I have left my painting mid-way to write what I have to tell you. I am suddenly reminded that I did exactly this when I was younger. I left my interest in painting mid-way to realise my bigger interest of writing. Anyways, it does not matter and I should revert back to my main topic.

Reader, straighten your right arm in your mind. Trust me. Do what I say. It is the best way to realise the extent of my experience and its following horror. Straighten your right arm and reach out for that camel-hair paint brush lying on the old table. Hold it with your tiny beautiful fingers. Bend your arm a little and allow your brush to fall into that red round repulsive receptacle filled
with plain water lying on that same old table. Pick up the brush slowly and carefully. Beware of those little droplets of water that made their way on the brush stick when it splashed into that same cold callous conjuring container. Water is sticky. Why will you want your sweet small splendid fingers to get sticked with water?

Now, do you see that open yellow color bottle lying nearby? Yes, you got it right. That yellow bottle. Now Reader, move your hand a little and put the paintbrush into that bottle. Allow the brush to swallow some yellow paint in its hair. Take it out now. Do you not think that the color is too thick and you need to dilute it? Just dip the camel hair of the paintbrush a little into the water container.

Reader, I did exactly in real what you did in your mind. I do not know about you, but imagine my horror when I saw how the yellow paint moved from the brush hair to form a small irregular circular layer on the water surface. Imagine my horror when that layer in due course of time melted itself into the water of that container. My thick paint reduced to being a layer. My layer then dissolved into oblivion. Everything suddenly became nothing.

Tell me Reader, is this not the perfect feeling of nothingness? Does this not mean being reduced to nothingness? Reader, do you also think that I am mad? Whatever may your opinion be, I remain,

Your obedient Servant.
The Writer

On Rivers

I have been trying so hard to find the correct words to describe to you, Dear Reader, about the way sparkling water makes its way through the brown earth. People say I am a creative writer but I fail so bad to depict the way miraculous and rhythmically noisy water cleaves the brown earth into two parts. Hence, there must be some truth when they say that you cannot be accurate about something you have not experienced and I have never seen a natural river. So, my image of an aesthetic far off place lying at the foothills of some enormous mountain, completely devoid of human contact could be surreal and phantasmagoric. The vision of a highly titillating river, victimized by the lush weeds on its banks, is thus dreamlike since I have not seen it with my own eyes. Therefore Reader, you must understand how desperate I am to see flowing rivers. It is highly possible that on seeing a river some day it might fail to impress me. My ideal and the realistic image might not match. The cruel moment might itself take away its importance by reminding me of various painful personal everyday encounters. I am extremely delightful that this thought might have entered the illuminated minds of my mute audience. But tell me, Dear Reader, will not this urge to see always remain specifically special to me? Will not I always cherish and nurture my great desire? I hope that you agree because I particularly live for this urge.

When I cut myself one day, I saw how the blood easily filled the gap made by my piece of glass on my brown skin. It was titillating to observe the sparkling blood just rush miraculously in its own noisy way to fill the cleft I made with the glass piece on my arm. This indeed was wish fulfillment. I applaud the intelligent minds again. Yes Reader, I finally saw my natural river.

Note :- The italicized words are emphasized. The readers might follow these while reading.

Another segment of thoughts

Life is a masquerade night. You wear a mask all the time and keep on
changing it as well. Bright yellow, violent blue, sparkly red, dusty
brown, lustful black; they are all there. But what happens when the
simple string of the mask starts hurting your skin? Remove it and you
find yourself all alone.
The day you stop following the rules; solitude becomes your lover. The
world either condemns you or leaves you alone to brood in your place.
You may go crazy understanding the departure of fake friends and
loveless lovers. But time, the great god, makes you come into an
agreement with it. Solitude enters your skin. And you reach a stage
when you embrace it totally.
How can words express this state of mind? How can words express the
dialectics of solitude? How can you convince that in this world full
of people you really have no one to call? It feels like being a lonely
fish. Small, tender but outcaste.

The end pages

~

At the end of this novel, my dear author has left some blank pages. I think he wants me to write. I stare at one such blank page, as blank as my mind at times. I wonder if a blank page can ever be filled.

If it can be filled, won’t the overflowing thoughts ruin the page itself and steal its thunder and profoundness?

Can a blank page ever be filled? Though I say it is full and over and no space is left but dear reader, what about those spaces between the lines, between two adjacent words and between the alphabets of every written word?

Aren’t those seemingly small spaces the most difficult to be filled?

~

Instances of Thoughts : Episode 2

Episode 2

A

 

It seems as if this sari will never end just like the perennial fountains. Gather up courage, little girl. Quickly drink your valueless tears and move on. Take one edge of the sari, no not the upper end border side, the other lower end side. Measure the width of the sari according to your height and tuck in the rest inside your underskirt. Do it somewhat near the right of the navel. Be sure the underskirt is tight around your waist. The threads might hurt and leave the skin of your waist crinkled and brutally marked, but do not care about it. Then take the rest of the sari around yourself once. Now, make 7 pleats, each of equal width. Draw the pleats together and neatly tuck them in. The pleats should be even and straight. Now drape the remaining sari around yourself once more covering your hips and bringing the fabric to the front in this process. Now raise the sari under the right arm and over the left shoulder making an elegant pallu. And I am ready. Today, I won’t do any make up. No, it would be just my plain pale self. There is a bindi stuck to the mirror. I’d just pull it out and stick it in the middle of my forehead, between the eyebrows. I’d just comb my hair and let them loose tonight. Where is the comb? Oh yes, here it is. Now, I am going to swiftly do my hair! And yes, I am done! Dear Husband, what do you think now? I can pull off a sari too. You better keep your hateful gaze to yourself and shower me with praises to get some action later tonight. Now, I can flaunt my pretty self much to your disdain. Little vanity will not hurt me. You route my thoughts to such a disgusting alley where I had never ever thought of treading.

B

 

My lady is suddenly absorbed in her thoughts and actions. That is quite unbecoming of her, but it is a welcome change. There is something about her ordinary yet glittery eyes. What is making them sparkle? Is it this faint powerful light or is it a mirror to her inner self? She works on her sari with her tender hands. Her fingers are completely veiled by the sari’s fabric, hiding all except the knuckles. She tucks the upper edge of her sari inside her petticoat. As she is doing the sari, her hands suddenly block her navel from my sight. Oh dear! Take away those hands and reveal what I want to see. Don’t be too tight with the petticoat’s thread. I don’t like marks on your body, especially your waist. My girl, heedless to my silent prayers, goes on working with her pleats. One, two, three… Ah! She makes seven! Why seven? Is she reminding me of the night we moved around the holy fire seven times? Is this mockery or is this a false commitment? She adjusts her pleats with grace. She has adjusted in my life too but that was not gracefully done. All those fighting nights are a testimony to that. Now, she drapes around the sari another time around her and ends up with a beautiful pallu. I don’t think she’d do make up tonight. It’d be her plain pale self. But that is great for me. Who likes unnatural faces? Reality fearers cover themselves with white powder. That is not my taste. She puts on her red bindi. These stickers are such a menace! She puts them up anywhere! Sometimes they are on the mirror, sometimes the bathroom walls and sometimes on the bedside table. Now, she is doing her hair. She looks lovely with loose hair. She does. Should I tell her so? Will she reward my praise in bed later at night?

 

C

I doodled on this green page. It is ink green. So, my graphite doodle is not much visible. In addition to this tragedy are the marked horizontal lines running from east to west on this page. My doodle lies all marked, brutally slaughtered by these ink black parallels of latitude just the way the sun’s rays are intercepted by the man-made imaginary parallels of latitude on the earth. They say these lines help to locate your position. Can they help me out to locate the position of my inner spirit or am I mixing man and nature in my vanity and for just an article? My doodle is a small flower. I gave beautiful curves to its petals, to its stem and to its leaves. I did not draw the roots. I am unaware of my roots. Hence who the fuck am I to give roots to this flower? I admire my flower with an exhaled breath, a sigh. I am overwhelmed. I rush to the washroom with my flower. I block the draining holes of the bathroom sink with a huge sponge and let the tap run till the water collects to the brim. I dip this ink green sheet in the sink. I wait impatiently for sixty seconds. But holy fuck! My flower does not grow! Then I pull out this wet sheet from the sink and rush to my balcony. I allow the blowing air to give wind to my flower. I wait for one hundred and twenty seconds this time. The sheet’s water stains my right foot and my hands in the meantime. But holy fuck! My flower fails to grow again! Yes sir, I gave it water. Yes sir, I gave it air. Indeed sir, I gave it love. But this fucker does not grow! Is there anyone to account for my worthy efforts? Would my flower never grow, just like love in a marriage?

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Also published at :- http://youth24x7.com/creations/abstracts/263-instances-of-thoughts-episode-2.html

Instances of Thoughts : Episode 1

Episode 1

A

 

It is getting so late. Sitting in his comfortable chair, my husband is staring at me with an irritated eye. I am still in my blouse and underskirt in front of the mirror. The underskirt got a bit stained one night. I am sure it will not be visible after draping the sari. It is 10.00 p.m. already and I don’t know how to wear this sari! It is such a messy business. Oh mother, why didn’t you teach me? You could have, you should have. This sari is so lovely and pretty. In fact, it is too beautiful to be worn by someone as plain as I am. I remember the day when I bought it. The body of the sari is made up of beguiling red brocade fabric. It is shuttle-woven and richly decorated with Victorian motifs made of golden silk threads. The black border is intricately hand-woven with pregnant golden flowers. I could not take my eyes off it when I saw it the first time in that dusty shop of bygone era. My husband laughed at me for buying this ‘old fashioned thing.’ Nevertheless, I smiled and promised myself to wear it someday with panache. Today is that day. But now, I am totally lost! How do I go about it? I look at myself in the mirror. Can I wear it? Do I want to wear it? Do I have to wear it? And would more blood be spilled if I fail to do so?

B

 

I stare at my wife. Right now she is standing in front of the mirror, in her blouse and underskirt. Her blouse is as lovely as her bosom. Its sleeves reach her elbow. I can see her dainty dusky hands emerging out of the sleeves. Her fingers are absolutely intermingled in her sari as they are in my hair, on good days. What type of pervert can wear this drastically old fashioned thing at a party? But there she is, worried and preoccupied in her thoughts, since she does not even know how to wear this correctly. Her petticoat is a bit stained. The lower part is blotted by blood at certain places. Why did she wear this filth? This psycho is taunting me for the first night I made her bleed. But the very act is bloody when it is done the first time. So, how can I be blamed for the act that everyone does. She was reluctant, I know that, but I am the righteous husband. My will shall prevail, at least in those matters! My dusky is beautiful but not smart. We are getting so late. Now, I have to hear things because of her. Since the day we got married, she has made a lot of mistakes. And who has to still vouch for her, in spite of those horrific murderous mistakes? Her wheedled husband, me! Now, should I urge her to be quick? Would she take that kindly or retort with a bloody snarl?

 

C

 

Nights are e’er long and lucrative, just like this Sobranie. The feather touch of this winged yet silent smoke instills my heart with a simpleness of a loving nature. I wonder about marriages. But my thoughts are bedimmed. What can a bachelor say about marriage? Is it an oath or a performance? Would four walls sealed with a lock unlock to become the universe, when a woman and a man are brought together inside them? Would it to lead to love or hate, if we lose the key to the walls forever? Or does there exist a diabolic way out of this complexity? I do not know, but I am intrigued. The man and the woman are as common as living air. They lack the distinctive dimensions just like the animated air. Love, marriage, hate; everything is ordinary and artless here. This is no scientific theory to save the masses, no social work to help the masses and no theory of living to educate the masses. Indeed they are amongst the masses, but do they define the masses? They are just a married couple facing their problems just like everybody else. The woman still wears the sari and the man remains raring. So, do I need to watch them? Do I really need to understand them? I can try but would that be of any use? Tolerant people would get a brilliant or sickening piece of article to read, but what would I get, except losing my peace of mind?

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Also published at :- http://youth24x7.com/creations/abstracts/253-instances-of-thoughts-episode-1.html

Smoky Uneasiness

Uneasy, she is very uneasy. It is incomparable uneasiness. No simile or metaphor can define that level of loss of ease. The need for cigarettes arises as brightly as the sexy sun. She goes to the nearest store and asks for three Marlboros along with a one rupee match box. She puts them all in her shiny silky silvery bag.  She now tries to locate a detached corner. The place remains unmerciful. There is no secret spot where she can hide and smoke those three. She decides to leave and search a new territory. She runs hurriedly across the busy road and reaches the other end. She can spot some wilderness at a distance. It is far but time is at hand. She sets her feet on the dust of the pavement and continues to move. The wind blows wildly messing all her hair. Is it a message from some lost forgotten lover? She feels disgusted but carries on. She puts her hand in her bag and takes out one Marlboro. She tries desperately to light it but fails to do so. The wind would not allow it. The scratching sound produced by the matchstick as it slides on the rough brown side of the matchbox sets perfect rhythm for her. She tries for some more time but blowing air proves hindrance. Our lady puts the cigarette back and approaches that uncanny wilderness. The swish of the wind, the noisy footsteps and the urgency to reach the spot occupy the fort of her mind.

The swan stops gliding now. She quickens her pace and reaches the place. There are trees there, so many trees. There are ants there, so many ants. She sits under one mindless tree. There are two more couples there. But the little narcissistic self does not care. She feels like Satan in this love atmosphere. Desperately she rummages through the contents of her bag and finds them. These are life savers at moments of unconditional darkness. She lights one. From the corner of her eye, she can feel the stares of the so called lovers. They resent her singular presence. She is single and smoking. It is definitely a killer scenario; but not appreciable at ‘love’ time. But as the grey smoke rises up, the cupid of worry fades away. The arrows fail to inject worries now. The smoke creates a thick fog around and assuredly the cupid can no longer see her. She feels at ease.

The fog parts a bit and an old beggar approaches the tree. He looks as old as the tree under which she is seated. He asks the two couples for money without luck. He starts going away but does not beg our little girl for alms. She wonders what is wrong. Does the smoke make her a beggar herself? She summons him and gives him five rupees. The fog parts more. A new beggar emerges now. Again, he does not come to her on his own. But she calls out to him and hands over five rupees again. Amidst the laughter of the couples and the rush of the wind through the leaves of the tree, she looks down at herself. She wonders the reason behind none of the beggars approaching her.

Killing this thought midway, emerges a new character, another beggar but a woman this time. She has a crooked nose. Her skin is like black wax. The black wax hugs the bones of her face in a hideously beautiful way. She is wearing boring blue clothes. They must have once been brilliant blue. She goes to the couple and begs for money. They ridicule her and ask her to take her begging gang away. Much to the girl’s disappointment, this woman, too, does not ask her for money. But repeating her monotonous routine, she invites the woman and gives her some change. The woman thanks her and turns to go away. The girl suddenly (surprised at herself) asks her to stop and sit with her for a while under the lovely shade. The woman obliges. The girl takes out some chewing gums from her bag and offers it to the woman. The woman takes it and tells the girl how she has never eaten gum before. The girl laughs and asks the woman about her life. The woman gets rather interested. She tells little bit about her dead husband and her married daughter. She is attached to her daughter. Her talks made it evident. She has a charming voice, like magical incantation.

The girl then notices the woman’s’ slippers, dusty and black. She then looks at hers, shiny and purple. She keeps on looking at the two slippers to draw distinctions. She has an abrupt urge to exchange this footgear. But won’t the new shiny purple ones look odd underneath her ragged boring blue clothes? Won’t people refuse to give her alms on the pretext of her having new slippers on her feet? The couples around her are still there. She could almost hear their interior monologues which questioned her companionship with the beggar woman.

Fighting in her mind with these vexing views, the charming voice enters her with tremendous force and breaks this trance. It is mystifying to realize that the voice both brought and broke the trance. The woman asks for leave now. She does not have much time and must gather as much booty as possible. The girl lets her go. The woman blesses her again and walks away. The girl’s eyes follow her and her slippers. She leaves little footprints on the dust as she walks. Her steps fly away some dust too. The girl gets up and starts following the woman. She walks on the woman’s footmarks. She covers ten steps. But then turns back, retraces those ten steps and keeps on moving ahead. The woman goes her away, the girl goes hers.

Coming was invited, parting accepted.

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Also published at :- http://youth24x7.com/creations/stories/228-smoky.html

Driving around

The old man gave me millions of old coins as cab fare. Sitting in my driver seat, I look down at these unlimited coins in my hands. It’d take me so much time to count them. My eyes fell on the little hole at the mid thigh region of the right leg of my black pants. I carelessly make a little convex bowl by the palm and fingers of my left hand and transfer all the rattling coins in the hollow. Then, I carefully pick one coin from the lot and cover my Lilliputian hole with it. The tip of my tongue comes out and touches my upper lip (and a bit of the skin above it), as I carry out this exercise cautiously. It feels spittly there. I sweep the body of my tongue over my lips and it feels much wet now. I look up and see the old man going away. He is as old as a rusted rod, as old as a lyrical leaf, as old as a keen koala, as old as a rude river and as old as a greasy guitar. I inspect the coins again. There are a lot of silver metallic coins with an index finger over them, depicting their one rupee denomination. The others show two fingers, yes, two rupees ones. I decide to stock them in the dashboard. A sudden beautiful sound enters my mindless ears and I look up to discover its source.

Dear lord, I am bounded by the unbounded loveliness you have put in front of me. I do not know if such beauty is possible. I am speechless. I am stuck at this sight. A girl is coming towards my cab, giggling with her girlfriends, in possibly the most resplendent way. The wind blows her hair all around and she looks like the lovely Medusa. I feel limp and breathless. My nerves lose control. The hollowed palm and the tight fingers slowly start relaxing. The metallic coins start falling down on their own, strumming various strings of the world’s most natural musical instruments. They produce a melodious clink as they strike across my nails, a mighty swoosh as they fall through the air and a magnanimous thud as they hit the floor of my colly cab. I let them remain there.

I am married. I have a baby boy. But I am diverted. Something has moved my direction pole, my north star. Neither can I do anything about it nor do I intend to. I pray, dear lord, make her come to me for a ride to heaven. Abruptly, my prayer is answered. There is no proper ritualistic ceremony when this divine beauty comes to my cab window, bends down, and asks after my willingness to drive her home. I fail to muster a word in front of her. I fail to look into her eyes. I want to know their color, but I cannot do so out of shame. I simply nod. The wind still blows her adorable hair. But she cares not for the blowing air. She goes a little back, climbs into the back seat, shuts the door and locks the air out. I can feel the sorrow of the air as it leaves the strands of her hair. They grow limp and lifeless again. One spicy strand falls down from her head and passes the ear and the cheek and the chin and the shoulder and finally reaches her breast.

I know I am losing control. I need to pull myself together. I am a cab driver. I cannot have expectations. Love is nothing but an illusion. I curse myself for saying the wrong prayers and push the accelerator. I try to adjust the car mirror to see her better. I still cannot figure out the color of her eyes. In this rented cab, I can only steal some insufficient glances at her. Dear heart, do not dream so extravagantly. You are a mere soul in this huge world. Allow love to be saved for the rest; it is not for you.

We have to stop at a red light. It is one hundred and eighty seconds long. One hundred and eighty seconds. I do know mathematics. I am a metric pass. It is three odd minutes. I do know it. I am so smart. There is a soft noise of a click and I can smell something bad. I look out of my window. It must be some unwashed beggar reeking bad odor. I look down and see all these coins lying there peacefully on the rug. In the gracious heat, they shine out like original silver. If I could put them all in a string, it’d be the most amazingly shiny anklet a girl can possess. I see the red light time indicator again. A hundred and twenty one seconds still remain. That is an odd number. No, I cannot divide it. Forget it! It’ll end soon. I do not have to worry my smart mind. I look at the driver on my right side. I give him a nod of acknowledgment. We are in this together, help up speechlessly by an inanimate traffic red light, when we do not even allow our stupid wives to utter a word in front of us. I then look at my left side. I notice that all the drivers and the people they are driving around are ogling my cab. What the fuck is wrong in the world? Why, my cab? Has the paint gone down totally? Damn, I need money to get this repainted. Or is it my hole? Did they see it? Oh, cruel world, do not mock me!

But no, they are not watching me. I am not the celebrity any more. I try to follow the direction in which their gaze is directed and I have to completely turn around my neck and head to do that. There she is, my divine beauty, smoking up a Marlboro, leaving lip marks of her delicious brown lipstick on the paper covering the filter of the cigarette. I am not shocked. I am not aghast. I just stare at her causing my turned-around neck much pain. She is a goddess, she can do nothing wrong. But why does she smoke? Everyone says it is bad. My father said it is bad, so it should be. It has to be. I can feel the energy of all the neighborhood people, looking at her with fixed eyes. But she still smokes sans care. Can she not see them? Or are they as unimportant to her as little black ants? She suddenly looks at me and my heart is brutally murdered. Snap! And it lies dead on this rug, two feet away from the lost coins, dripping blood on the rug and imparting some on the coins. The base of my shoes is almost smeared by the red of my own blood. She looks at me, devoid of any human emotion, and asks me to drive on. I turn around with haste. The light is green now. Suddenly all people start honking their car horns. I want to close my ears. Honking is so killing. I want to cry. I do not want to be a driver. This is not what I want. But I control my tears and again, step on the accelerator. I drive, trying to push away every thought from my mind. I must know my place in society. The people were right in honking and jeering at me for being a slow driver. It was my fault and I must admit it.

She then urges me to take a left turn and stop at the first gate. I do so. She checks the cab meter and pays accordingly. She has gone leaving the money in my hand, the money being the only source of touch between her and me. I keep the money inside the dashboard.

She has  gone leaving only chains of smoke in my cab.

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Also published at :- http://youth24x7.com/creations/abstracts/237-driving-around.html

Am I a dreamer

I look at my left hand. I bring all my fingers tightly together. It looks like an asymmetric, wrongly indented ice sheet now. I look closely at the purple hue on the lower part of my nails. Then, I am intrigued by the folds of the skin and the little whiskers on my fingers. My eyes start following a green vein which starts midway from my hand, takes an unusual turn as it encounters a bone, and then moves straight ahead till it reaches my elbow. I am not able to follow it further. It suddenly hides deep beneath my dark skin just like the green leaves of that solitary green tree which lose color and significance as darkness approaches.

Tired of this exercise, I now part the fingers of both my hands a bit and run them through my hair. I can feel the scratch of my nails on my scalp as I do that. I pull my hair back with great force and consequently break some strands which wrap around frenziedly in my fingers. With disgust, I shirk those slimy strands on the ground. They lie there on the white marble floor, like dead terrestrial snails which died when an obstinate man put his orthodox foot on them. The white marble is their open grave, my gaze being their shroud.

I look closely at this white marble grave. It looks so hard, just like your white heart. I look at these lifeless strands now. They are coal black in color. Then, abruptly taking my relaxed state of mind to a perplexed cliff, I witness these strands leaking color. It appears as if a worker splashes hot liquid tar on a big white canvas, and then slowly the tar starts dripping and spreading. The whiteness of the marble disappears, just like your white heart disappeared from my life. All I can feel is blackness now. All I can see is blackness now. This coal blackness keeps on expanding till I fail to differentiate the wall from the floor. Your white was never that strong. How did you manage to take away all light and leave behind this intense darkness? I shut my eyes in hope to see some orange and some grey. But no, it remains pitch black. I sense myself falling down in a large pit. I shout but can anyone ever hear silent shouts? I extend my hands to hold on to something but I fail. There is nothing and there is no one to guide me. I have fallen down.

I blink and as my upper eyelash meets the lower one, it is suddenly all white. It feels as if I suddenly pulled off the dark robe from my body to reveal the whiteness inside. I never knew Hades’s¹ underground is white. It looks more like the world of Zeus². I find myself on white crystalline glass. The soft skin on my lower legs feels the hard thigh bone as I sit with folded knees on this grass.  I wonder why there was no sound of my landing. I am not a feather. Or has your white heart engulfed my speech and sound too? I put my right hand on this white grass. My skin looks dull and diseased. I feel hideous. I want to hide but can a person ever truly hide?

I blink again and there you are, right in front of me. You are like a glass of white wine. I can never have enough of you. The body and the senses will always crave for more. You are so close to me. I’ll be forever breathless to breathe the besotted blitzed breeze you breathe out. This is the ecstasy I want in every wine glass I drink. You are so near to me. I can almost feel my arm’s little hair standing up as I extend my right hand to touch your left shoulder. You are like a fresh green drew drop on white lucid grass. Your eyes are clear and tearless but your gaze is teasing and concupiscent. I have so many questions. But they can wait. They can even wait forever. I want you to say something. But why do you stay still? I am longing to be drenched in your heaven-sent brook of words.

My wish comes true. I can see you slightly parting your lovesome lips to speak to me. There is a black light in your eyes which is as miraculous as you are. I can almost feel that white blush on your beautiful skin as you try to bring forth your serenade of words set up in perfect cadence. But suddenly the beautiful sound of the devil is interrupted by wicked angels. They come up and make a lot of noise. They ruin the crystal clear grass and shatter the moments with their racket. All I can hear now is piercing noise, a noise that is continuously trying to drill into my mind through the sides of my forehead! I try to shout but no voice comes out. I want this to end. I suddenly spot a grey pathway to get out of this mess. I take hold of your hand and try to run away with you. But you jerk off my hand. Your merciless eyes ask me to go alone. I turn away from you with tears in my eyes and run for the pathway. I run. I run. And I run.

I run through that grey weeping pathway. It is dusty. The dust enters my eyes as I run. I rigorously rub the back of my veined right hand on my eyes to clear away the teary dust, dirtying the venose beauty as I do so. I blink endlessly to remove the irritant. After the last blink, I find myself perched on a couch in my room. As the heroine of this lifeless drama, I am loudly lighted by the light tube overhead and dull light lights the rest of the space. I try to figure out my journey with you.

All of a sudden there is a faint knock on the door. I know it is you. It cannot be anybody else. I get up in a maddened excitement and rush for the door. But as I do so, I step on something lying on the floor which I had never noticed before. My heart shatters as I witness the thing I ruined with my evil foot. It was my fragile dream. I feel a glass piece slowly penetrating inside my skin at the base of my right foot. The shattered pieces of my dream have ragged bloodied edges. I leave little red footmarks on the white marble floor as I walk ahead to answer the door.

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1. Hades is believed to be the God of Death in Greek Mythology. He is the Lord of Hell.

2. Zeus is believed to be the ultimate father God in Greek Mythology. He is supposed to live on Mount Olympus which is considered to be the heaven.

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