Rythm

It is an approximate 26 minutes past 11 pm at night when I am tapping on my keyboard in a very wrong manner, specially wrong since I just learned of the computer users' carpal syndrome. A news broke in today, that an amiable boy in his late 18s choked to death because of an absent mind as well as an empty glass beside. I feel a lump on my throat. What happens, when tomorrow is a day where there is only fresh or half-fresh tears for me?

Lately I am feeling very depressed. Depressed, in the sense that I wake up in the morning to find my soul lost to vaccum. I take the first, unintentional, vibrating steps, with a mouthful of lesson that today I will see life with the vision of a closet poet, the thrill of a ski diver and the extraordinary faith of an ordinary passerby hunting his way down for a job. I feel all these, but I still can't get myself out of this nutshell. It has webs, puzzles and barricades all around, one or the other lingers my way.

What to do when you don't seem to smile at strangers? Talking, even those few words beat out all the enthusiasm in you. What to do when you feel sad, depressed because of a reason unknown. For me, it has been freestyle dancing today. I danced to Masakali, O Hum Dam Soniyore and Kurbaan Huan- after a time span of two months, i could see my locomoting shadows on the wall next to the mirror. Even it was gigling. I could smell my breath, a relieved one. Like a bench with lilac petals on it. A boulevard with aroma of pastel colours.

Writing- most of the time when I am feeling blue, I either grasp the blue pen to scribble down on my diary or start tapping the buttons on the computer. Writing does the job of a tape recorder for me. It does all my advocacy, all the advising, all the listening. Even when I have just kept a scratch remaining, there's a stride in the way I pace off. Like someone just heard my story, and feels the way I felt when I was storytelling it. Like all the emotions rang in the air, tip-toed on the wind and later sat cross-legged on the mosaic floor.

Insects bites, because of the left-over sweetners on one edge of the table, are settled to give me the permanent stings. Piled books, I can see "The God of Small Things" namely, arranged like a column of clouds on the fifth sky, about to topple over at any instant. Top. Tap. Ssssh. The God of Small things, this book- is a living persona for me. Every time I am lacking inspiration, I simply have to look at the cover. Beaming with life, the descriptions so articulate, every single page is a tribute to the power of storytelling. I am reading tidbits from here all the time, under the bedcovers, standing between the Third and the Fourth stair leading to home. I am reading, reading and reading.

Dear Blue Bird, you know why I am still awake so late at night? I don't feel my bones any more. It's maybe a cliche. I am writing to you, because tomorrow is another day full of pressure and waiting for my a positive nod. I want to be the girl who can take it- I know you understand.

It's me Signing off.

Maybe right now you are sleeping on your nest. We will meet tomorrow in between another busy evening and skycastle-adorned dreams.