Saturday, November 9, 2013

.......

Every once in a while you bottle up your whims and store them for posterity. You get impulsive. You read handwritten letters with the color of expression dripping from between the lines. You feel like you're headed somewhere but you don't want to reach yet. You escape. To return. You improvise. To give up. 
One such morning I leave for a possibility instead of leaving for work. I daydream of dogeared pages and knitting tutorials. Such mornings usually pass unnoticed to the rest of the world when you're already on the other side of the looking glass. You live in an era when you weren't even born. You cringe at how Muhammad rafi is highly underrated in the current generation. You allow yourself moments of vanity behind well polished cutlery. You alternate between grey and greyer. You think black and white are too objective. Dividing lines are too mainstream. You become your own kept woman. Or your own wife. You hate. You mutter hindi profanities when no one's watching. You take a leap. You bounce back. You disregard. You digress. You use too many semicolons. One comma too many. Speak in pauses. Get distracted. Leave the doors unlocked. The fridge overfrosted. You run until you're just a narration of your jangled mind. 

Because bottled whims, smell sweet after a day's play( and no work)

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