playing skittles with time

what do you with lost time? it sits morose at your feet, heavy with the weight of dead hours, clamping you down, not letting you move on. so what do you with time that hangs like a pendulum, deadbeat and rusted?
you broom it up, the stagnant mass. roll it into a ball and throw it down the alley. watch it smash the wooden pins down, with fist and fury.
turn back, relieved. look again, aghast. one by one, the pins are up. smiling and teasing, the pins are up, one by one.

Roads..

..fascinate me. dusty village pathways, broad busy city avenues, neglected thoroughfares, trim boulevards, zippy flyovers, deserted cul-de-sacs, winding mountain roads, local streets on hot summer nights, streets meditating under lampposts, wet-black streets like a glistening serpent streched out in the rains, fog-heavy winter streets passing bleary campfires..for impulsive long drives, moody ramblings, vacant lingering, peaceful strolling..perennial get-aways, leading anywhere..always with a promise of something better, beyond what meets the eye..

on fire..

i met TJ after two years yesterday. to me, she had epitomised the word 'firebrand'. so naturally, i had expected to see the obvious sparks flying all about her. throughout our conversation, I kept looking for familiar signs and found them missing-the sharpness of her brow, the direct gaze, her magnetic idealism, the prickly attitude.
she had changed (" sobered down, matured" as they put it, smiling that patronising smile). but i was disappointed. and hugely unsettled. i have never understood this burning need to control fire..why not just let the fire be? and let it burn itself to ashes? why press for everything to mellow down? just because you cant stand the scorching light..just because you cant bear to see the gaping holes it exposes all around..so that you can safely ensconce yourself around its last embers and wallow in the thin warmth of security. with every extinguished flame of individuality, you have feeded your envy.. by putting an end to something you could never have, and so never could understand.

i woke up...

..to a hangover today. the kind of nauseating feeling you get after forcefully stuffing yourself with something cloyingly sweet. like a true-blue recluse, i've started reacting, a little too strongly, to society and its ever smiling faces.
i glided, yesterday evening, taking in the pleasantries invariably exchanged over freshly-mowed, dew-wet grass..blinding halogen lights and darkness- the chiaroscuro dimming the senses in the winter late-evening, expensively bought fragrances working like a hypnotic charm, revealing layers of chiffon and georgette on scrubbed complexions- like a translucent wave of beauty and shimmer..i movcd away and stood at the edge of the lawns, looking. .running my fingers over the rough bark of an old tree, watching a lonely dog scamper up to eat a discarded chocolate brownie..stupidly waiting for something to erupt from under the thinly spread surface before my eyes, something ugly, puss-like and real.

the 55 words story

okay..really liked some of the short stories doing the rounds here. quite interesting. so i tag myself. here's mine-


"she saw him coming towards her, that dirty old man. before she knew it, he was dragging her away from her quiet corner. She froze. In a flash, her pink silk gown was on the floor. Silence. furtive glances bore into her beautiful naked body.

she felt alive..

almost..


..till he dressed up the mannequin again."

on the station

He stood besides the moving train, motionless, not looking at her. he could hear the sound of metal screeching against metal. louder and louder till it shot through his ears like a solid beam. inside his head, he could feel the dull hum of silence.. like something between his ears and eyes had been snapped. his eyes stared at the small puddle before him . the oil film broke into rainbow colours in the evening rays, the mud tried to swallow it. he walked on, a solitary man amidst a crowd of pushing men, irritated women and wailing children. he came home when darkness was falling and wanted to sleep. his head felt light on his cool pillow. it was a quiet sleep, free of the noise of dreams.

of vestiges..

from loss, to memory of the loss, to the loss of a painful memory- it's a long journey. and when you've reached far enough, you look back and wonder, was it really me who went through it all? you look closer for traces of old scars. they're not there. then suddenly it dawns on you like clear light. you'd hung them in the sky. they were there, remote yet constant, like the sun and moon, like your own star which saw you through. and all the while, you never knew its quiet power over you. it was one of the things that made you, 'you'.