This is a feeling of unbecoming. A strange feeling of uneasy calm that makes you claw the insides of your head. While you sit, smile, work, go ahead with existence. Don't ask me to explain this place to you. I know I am in it. Like a piercing shard darkness that swipes at the soul. Gradually. At a steady pace. Regularly. So little by little, every passing moment there is so little left of you. A shade. A colour. A feeling. A fleeting touch. A fading memory. I am no longer me. I am terrified. But I am no longer me.

Shock therapy

It seems I am gradually getting surrounded by layers and layers of people. Layers of strange thoughts and behaviours and feelings. Like onion layers. As much as it is alien to me the more they grow veins and start tapping in to my blood stream. I just want to sit and cry. But there just never is enough time. And it feels stupid.

And those who cannot love - will be forgiven.

When it rains on a sleeping city - a fistful of yesterday's unhappiness gets placed on my palms. It is like the city knows that I had run away. And right now - I sit ensconced in the left over moisture of the night's cloudburst hiding from another city.

A familiar heartache. The fresh feel of nascent salt water - happens every time I leave. It is like I am running away all over again. I wish there was time to sit down and stroke the demons to sleep. Let them know that even love is a war. A terrible war. The casualties are far too many and there are no flesh wounds.

The familiarity of my surroundings had let me sleep peacefully after days. I dreamt - jolted out of sleep and with a strange ease - slipped right back in. Every single day of the past few - I have fraught in despair with my dreams - begging the city to forgive.

I am like a fugitive here.
And I am told - by the old staircase, the haunting empty terrace, the rain swept night - those who cannot love - will be forgiven.

A want half fulfilled...

I was finally in the hills. Craving for it like a starved dog craves a morsel I woke up in the middle of the night to feel the chill in my bones – the stinging air on my cheeks. I didn’t know where I was – some odd roadside stall with washrooms that stank of human detritus. I was pulled out of my seat – feel the cold. You HAVE to feel the cold. And I took a deep breath in – it hurt to drag the pure air in. The stars were so stark and bright up here. How much longer, I asked. A few hours.

The next I opened my eyes I was surrounded by humanity in a busy little town. The hills were still there. A comforting presence of sorts – like a mother to a sick child. You have wanted it for so long – they would be there till you recovered.

My eyes hungrily followed the river, reverse, up its course, higher and higher, spiral roads in to the mountains. I didn’t care about a name, an identity – it was everything that all that I had ached for was right there. The snow draped mountains far, far away – were this beacon of seduction. We weren’t going that far up – not this time.

That one road called a town – almost hidden amongst the pine and the mountains. To wake up to see the pines and step out to see the mountains. Life could come to a stop there and not move a muscle. Die a permanent death sealed in the freezing cold and bliss.

If I woke up to a mountain every day – I would not have an ego.

How could I? For here was nature’s indomitable marker of an ego – and to pit mine against the sheer rock face would be a farce. I would have dreamed off only one thing every day – to scale that height and sooner or later – every other human being’s ego would become irrelevant. If their ego did not exist – how would mine? At God-moments – there is no ego.

The next few days passed in a haze. Of furry, friendly dogs, food, the perpetual smell of herbs, ice cold bed sheets that took hours to warm, long walks and the river.

The river…oh the river. It was the story of every life flowing over well worn rocks to oblivion. Every soul in the world could sit there and see every moment from birth to death twirl in the rapids. The stunning blue, the iridescent white that moved too fast to adequately reflect the watery sunlight. Racing, running, romancing the white exposed rock faces with a slight of hand.

And there was the creaky bridge. I wanted to stand there perpetually and see the seasons change.

Hours were wiled away next to the river, in long walks to nearest settlements, in cafes, in idle conversation.

Ever walk meant a furry, happy companion. One black, brown eyed fellow, who seemed to be called ‘Winner’ took on our company from Chalal to Kasaul. As I stepped on to the bridge, he followed bravely. No sooner was he next to me staring at the waters, a big, off-white, one was sitting there looking at him threateningly from the other end of the bridge. Every step Winner took towards Kasaul, the off-white took a menacing step on to the bridge. In seconds, Winner turned on his furry tail and made a dash back for Chalal with the off-white in hot pursuit.

The day we were to leave, we woke up to rain and fog. I had been dreaming of the rains in the hills – and here it was. The mountains all around had snow on the top. It was heartbreaking. I did not have the time to go there. The idiocy in the plains demanded me back. I tried to fill my eyes with the visions of snow – not to miss a single scene – it was like a drug. It physically hurt to not be able to touch the white or feel the particles melt on my skin. Next time, I promise you, the next time.

I could not close my eyes for a moment as I traveled down. I kept cursing myself for the lack of a good camera. I had cursed myself throughout the days for the lack of one – the absence of it had grown more dire at this instance.

I drank in the scenes as they passed – wondering when I could be back again. I did not need the people, the voices, the comfort of anything more than a place to sleep. And food, occasionally. Perhaps.

And just as it had begun – it was all over. The bone chilling cold, the air that turned every word to vapour, the never ending flow of the clear blue water and more mountains far far away.

I will need to go back. It is a rule that cannot be broken.

New Year.

A quarter of a life rolled back like injured skin
Blood peeking out from the edges – threatening to tell a little more than I intend to let know.

The rushes of the night, in cold clammy comfort, till sweat wraps my neck and am buried in your arms. This kind of love is a tome.

A quarter of a life rolled away. We have all tried to die, in as much ease a bastard touch would allow, tried to smother to death a part of a reality in wine and breath of yester years.

Learned to say no to things that tease you to live. Over and over – every passing day. Need I be afraid?

Afraid of electric thoughts that rise from below, the rush of blood on my cheeks, the glazy eyes – shut tight against humanity – a quarter of a life rolled away.

For the next quarter that has come, wiped the uterine slime off its back and risen to the occasion in a drunken mess.

There will come a time – when progenitors will know – that in all things pretty – something broken always grows.