The heat wakes me up early,
Torrid orange-yellow glow drifts in through the swaying, thin curtains.
The heat that wakes me up early is a kind of unknown warning.
The heat stops my aimless journey with fake dreams as consorts.
I touch her hand gently.
The heat is driving me to rewind and review.
The heat is the template on which my review workflow starts.
I am rolling, rewinding,
Like an innocent lithe figure running in one direction and the parallel frame running in the opposite direction.
You don’t know who is running to where.
It is the heat that is waking me early and making my eyes burn.
As the night vibrated with lost dreams and hidden desires, I saw something reddish drifting up in the sky.
It looked like a lonely lantern searching for someone in need of some light and solace.
The orange super moon was the only onlooker as the thing glided towards an unknown destination.
I closed the door as the cool night winds whispered that I may be intruding the private journey.
New Year is just a construct. Today is the same as ever and there is no difference in me either.
I don’t know why I want to visit a European country like Italy, or sit facing a blueish lake reading the classics written so far.
The Sun is not out today, the chill in the air starts to crawl up the legs. A squirrel darts across a terrace and then stops to gaze at a swaying green branch.
Where is this year’s greatest living author?
It is difficult to keep on writing regularly. The mind murmurs to write, but the daily chores around stop or refuse to listen. Sometimes, I feel there is nothing substantial to write, and whatever had to be said had already been said. Already been said by great souls with immense creative energies.
Today, it rained in the city I live. As I travelled from my place of work to my home, there was rain all around. It was dark, humid, thin leaves floating around, and few raindrops fell on my dry head. I allowed those little drops to remain on my dirty hair. Then, as I reached the city, rain lashed the car’s mirror, from a slanted angle, thin, but forceful. The rain did not obscure the way ahead. It seemed to cleanse the road ahead. Brownish leaves suddenly looked more clear with the greenish hue poking its head out. In the distance I saw clear clouds with an yellowish tinge. There was a strange silence all around as the rain slowly retreated as I entered the central part of the city.
It rained today evening in the city I live and it made me write a post. It made me write a post.
Dream 1: …A conference room. A big table around which a few people were sitting. Some of them were scribbling something on their notepads. The walls were pink or light pink. There was a streak of white somewhere in that hall. I don’t remember where the white color was and the color of the table. People were talking or discussing something. Then, someone drew a line through unclear text on the white notepad. A name. The color of the line drawn on that notepad was red. There were other lines, but I could not remember their color. It is like someone crossing out someone from something. The way the line was drawn indicated it was not a good result…
Dream 2: …A woman got on to a bus. Public transport. There was a bridge nearby. There was also an office bordered by high brick walls. In the distance loomed high trees with green leaves covered with brownish haze. I knew the bus route number. I could not know where I was standing or what I was doing. I knew the woman was taking the wrong bus. I knew it. It was going to the wrong destination. I knew I was helpless. I was wondering why that woman was taking the wrong bus. I wanted to tell, scream. I was unable to do that. I do not know why. But I knew the woman was taking the wrong bus. I was helpless. Who was that woman? Was it my mother, wife, lover, sister, or…
It became their own bridge and they seemed to be happy about it. They used to walk, run, and jump on it. Once in a while, they carry the dead in a pattern resembling a well-rehearsed orchestra to give the souls a respectful resting place.
The flow was erratic and was never regular to an outsider like me who stood under a tree and watched the bridge, a thin, brown rope tied to two adjacent trees by my grandmother. One of those trees had a big round stem and the rope looked like a necklace adorning a milky white neck. The other end of the rope was tied to a small plant which swayed in the afternoon and evening winds. As I started watching them more and more, inhaling the vibrant aroma of flowers in bloom and trying to understand the erratic traffic on the bridge, I became more concerned about the thin plant with a pencil like stem decorated with a few pale green leaves. The situation was a bit unequal with the balance held by the bigger tree. I felt that the mass of the bigger tree and the force of the wind that made the smaller plant sway wildly might break the bridge on which dozens were still engaged in their erratic dance.Some were pretty fast and eager to collide with others; others were more mature and calculated; others stopped for a while and exchanged messages.
The life that danced on the bridge glistened like golden globes when the canopy opened and let the sunlight hit them. I cannot say that it was a canopy in the real sense of the word. There were trees all around that small garden, and several big trees and their leaves enveloped the trees holding the bridge. I liked one of those big trees on which big yellow flowers blossomed once in a year. The aroma was unmatched when the yellow flowers blossomed, but like good feelings, it lasted only for a while. Faded and weak, they would fall to the ground in a few hours or days. I remember the tree, which grew upwards, at times, when I inhale or sense the same aroma. I don’t know from where and how it occurs. May be I get it around a corner, a market, a flower market, or near a restaurant. It is difficult to ascertain whether the aroma came first, or the color, or both occurred simultaneously.
While life withered and regenerated around, the bridge remained busy.