There's something exhilarating about wandering in the dark, walking in the night, writing in the light of an LCD screen, with the mere awareness of your nose, hands, fingers and hair that are eerily visible, hearing the birds chirp when you go into the balcony early morning and realise that you had missed their chatter for so many mornings, standing there and feeling the much needed chill of the fresh air on your face,thinking of characters that live in parallel universes, the smoothness of nature, the sharpness of branches that lie unclothed, conversations that get lost in other conversations,in dreams and in sleep, about remembering the feel of things, of thoughts, the smell of a room that was solely yours, the look of a library, the fear of losing to yourself, the excitement of growing up and learning,the appearance of a world that was new and then the transitions that followed, in going through the cycle.
A little boy comes running, keeps rambling here and there. You know who it is. Yet as you open your eyes, he's gone. You look at the sky. Smile. The wind speaks to you, and this time, somehow you know what.
A little boy comes running, keeps rambling here and there. You know who it is. Yet as you open your eyes, he's gone. You look at the sky. Smile. The wind speaks to you, and this time, somehow you know what.
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