A Disconnected Being

Life is all that is around. I find it swarming my lamps on a rainy evening. In decorative wings that flap around, colourful shells that roam the blades of grass, in unannounced bloom across the canopy as far as the eye can see. In chirps all night long, croaks and coos and buzzes around.

I close my eyes and say, ‘Hush now, I want to rest a bit’. I have been awake, a tad too long.I can’t rest for there's life around.

Would the frantic wings flap on my cheek? would I feel a tickle, maybe a slap? Would the chirp be loud, the croak heavy? are they merry or taunting me?

I see wings strewn all around. The lamps are off, I clean the ruin. A fleeting spectacle that lasted a while, kept me awake. I wonder will I rest tonight?

Permafrost

There is haze that clouds an otherwise clear mirror on a clear winter day. My fixtures collect damage, my windows stay shut, for what would I do with all the dust they let in otherwise? I want to exhale. maybe gasp a bit. Let the room breathe, let the haze

An epitaph of a flourishing rot

I think I heard a thud last night. Incandescent facades of the apartments that overlook my bedroom reveal what ensued in the dark as they woke me the morning after. A slender, tall, seemingly flourishing tree had fallen. I yawn and wonder if it is a tree I recognised. I

A yielding of the yield

It’s been a week of evenings with gusty winds. The trees sway! They come ever so close to my window, I want to let them in, shelter them from the wind. But they stay rooted afar. Held firm, as they bow, recline and shed leaves in decline. At times,

A familiar Sunday

It is Sunday. The sky is shut early. The trees seem dimly lit, but the canopy has decided to accentuate its green to match the dense pale blanket. I remember this day. It was a Saturday, at times a Wednesday, but often, a Sunday. I have watched it from the

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Permafrost

An epitaph of a flourishing rot

A yielding of the yield

A familiar Sunday