SOS

I looked at the sky. The blue was enchanting. I looked farther away I could see a hue of pink at the horizon. Clouds had covered the sun but a few rays had managed to penetrate through the clouds. It looked like someone with gold fingers were trying to squeeze cotton. A cool wind blew over my face and suddenly I realized a spiraled hole being formed on my chest near the heart. It looked like the hole that lies at the centre of a whirlpool. The hole functioned like the Black Hole— having infinite gravity that can even suck-in light. I couldn’t fathom what was being sucked. But  the blue of the sky suddenly became a mockery of its own beauty.  The cool breeze became itchy. I thought the oxygen levels were going down. My breathing lost its rhythm. But I was alive and something told me I was not going to die. I reached my hands out to the heavens calling all the gods I had adored to come to my rescue. But all that I saw was my gods standing helpless and pointing at something. What the fuck were they pointing at? Aren’t they supposed to swoop down and help me. But they allowed me to suffocate. My hands were sweating and the sweet smell of the mud wetted by the slight drizzle of rain turned foul. The whirlpool had now turned into a cyclone. Uprooting the people from the grounds of my mind and heart. They started swirling around me circles. I tried stopping all of them but I couldn’t. The tornado was too powerful. I looked up at the gods again. What the fuck are they still pointing at? Why don’t they move their asses and do what they have to? Oh celestial divine idiots! Come down here! They started laughing but would not stop pointing. The skies started to darken. Then the rains  came down. Not from the skies but from my eyes. The rains the cyclone together became an unstoppable force. Then a lightning struck. And I saw the gods again for a flash in the darkness. Another  bolt of lightning struck. But it hit me this time. The gods were pointing at me. Why? I forced myself some breath  and tried to look at me. And I knew what could save me.

A hand glove

Fascination for a hand glove. A laughable matter isn’t it? Laugh, laugh. But the fascination is true. Why? I have no reasons. When? You  rather you ask me- SINCE when? Anyway, I don’t remember that too. But fascination for a hand glove, I did have. And please don’t think it’s a lie. Because if it was, it would not have been for  a  hand glove. Nobody lies about hand gloves, do they? Who knows? Anything can happen in this world. If a person can confess that he has a fascination for hand gloves then there can be those who will think this is all a lie. Lies Lies. No it is true. My dear hand glove. And it comes in so many varieties. The ones with fur—soft and smooth; made from the hides of innocent little beasts—give such a pleasure. Aah! Then the rubber ones. Gives you such a feeling of power to put your hands in the gutter and garbage. There are so many more. Before I forget let me also mention about the free gloves you get with hair dye bottles. They are very common. So I suggest even you can try and feel the pleasure of wearing a hand glove.

 

But why am I so attracted to these deceptive things? They are hand gloves for god’s sake. There are not someone’s hand. Oh! No wonder! Now I know why. Whenever I held on to it too tightly it came off. And I thought the quality of the hand glove was not good. Mercy!! Have mercy on me my dear hand glove. I doubted your quality. Oh my five fingered friend, brother, love(I am not being incestuous—each glove is different you see!!!). You came to me in so many forms. And I found a defect in all of them. I fit my dirty big hands inside you and made holes in you. I kept you unwashed because by then I wanted a new one. Oh I am so sorry my hand glove. Ok fine. I know a sorry won’t suffice. I promise I will wash you clean and not wear until you easily fit in my hand again. I will stitch the holes I made but I need time. I will do it but I need time. I will shamefully add  Roberts Frost here…I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep and miles to go before I sleep.

a Ha, a Ha Ha, a Ha Ha Ha

When laughter abandons, what is left is a void. A vacuum. An empty hole. That’s when when one tries to fill the vacuum with the syllable, ha. But the laughter attains a sinister sound. It echoes within the boundaries of the vacuum and the syllables  crash against each other emanating a noise that could haunt the graveyards themselves. A smile takes on the role of a mask that betrays every emotion. Happiness and sadness merge into one and becomes a collective non-entity. A craving for both happiness and sadness arises. This contradiction takes away the spirit. What remains of one is the vacuum with a few syllables left in it.