Words race around my page, chasing each other and refusing to form straight lines.
A woman with a nose bleed meets a little child on a train to nowhere. They disappear into the thin lines of my cursor and make way for some deeper, something smarter, something just so out there.
The darkness runs over my page, painting itself into a story about revenge and regret; perhaps both. The words look within themselves for the meaning of something larger than themselves. They run around with the woman in a black suit whose handbag has a gun. They give themselves a head rush, as the husband gets seizure after seizure in the cold of the night. They try and hide the secrets she has and the affairs he indulges in. They live on the edge of my page hoping my eyes gleam and I take charge.
A few lines later, they offer me support through the death of a friend. They rub my back and hold out herbal tea in a dainty mug. They pull out old memories; they form tight circles of days gone by and hot summers and ice-cream cones. They take pauses, semicolons if you will, when the funeral comes by.
In the end, it’s scores of words, both magical and cringe-worthy; wooing me, hoping that something will come out of their colourful circus.
Some days, I applaud their trapeze acts. Some days, I leave the hall slyly, hoping they don’t notice.
Note: My friend Shruti deserves a mention here because her writing brilliance continues to inspire.
A woman with a nose bleed meets a little child on a train to nowhere. They disappear into the thin lines of my cursor and make way for some deeper, something smarter, something just so out there.
The darkness runs over my page, painting itself into a story about revenge and regret; perhaps both. The words look within themselves for the meaning of something larger than themselves. They run around with the woman in a black suit whose handbag has a gun. They give themselves a head rush, as the husband gets seizure after seizure in the cold of the night. They try and hide the secrets she has and the affairs he indulges in. They live on the edge of my page hoping my eyes gleam and I take charge.
A few lines later, they offer me support through the death of a friend. They rub my back and hold out herbal tea in a dainty mug. They pull out old memories; they form tight circles of days gone by and hot summers and ice-cream cones. They take pauses, semicolons if you will, when the funeral comes by.
In the end, it’s scores of words, both magical and cringe-worthy; wooing me, hoping that something will come out of their colourful circus.
Some days, I applaud their trapeze acts. Some days, I leave the hall slyly, hoping they don’t notice.
Note: My friend Shruti deserves a mention here because her writing brilliance continues to inspire.
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