Tuesday 23 March 2010

A week in-sanity

This was written ages ago, one of my desperate attempts at writing prose...

Day 1:
Visions of a masquerade, not knowing, unseeing, dancing… dreams of daggers, tales and of charting unknown places. Desires which inspired to deceive, being caught in a web of lies and randomness. Scared minutes of the home-coming of truth. Earth-calling and running… running away, far away… until annihilation, nothingness and oblivion became one and the same.

Day 2:
They were all resting on the fierce reds and purples of the glade. In a faraway corner, a solitary movement unsettled them all. White, yellow, blue, the whole lot of butterflies rose all at one into the air akin to a brilliant display of fireworks. They didn’t settle down, just flitted on higher and higher until all the colours were splashed against the sky and the diffused painting from an unknown palette was created.

Day 3:
It was the first ray, the early morning sun that dappled on the flowing brook, on the still fresh dew and on the clouds; changing their expressions every fleeting moment. Far into the distance, as the first bird chirped, the world exploded in sounds, sights and business. There was laughter, talks, light hearted banter even as the little one hid the tears from the trauma she went through… again.

Day 4:
The wick caught fire instantly. The candle danced into being as the light cast grotesque shadows on the walls. Flickering images, making stories out of the shapes and hues marking the existence of light, faintly crackling, disturbing the quiet darkness. Steady sounds of the passing time, shifting in and out of focus as the whine of the dogs drowned out a few seconds. Tick-tock tick-tock…

Day 5:
All the landmarks sped past as if they were riding the legendary Pegasus. Every speck in the distance was as fleeting past too quickly. In the speeding glimpses of the passing villages there arose the images of folk tales, of dinner on banana leaves, the girl next door who was married off last week. Lonely looking bulbs, casting a bile-yellow glow in tiny rooms with thatched roofs. An occasional firefly until the train disappeared into the tunnel…

Day 6:
Rain gushing down, on the sidewalk, on the window panes. Water on the face, pelting, blinding, accompanied by occasional flashes of lightning. Rumbling thunder, reminding them all that it wasn’t over, not yet. Tears mixing with the raindrops, screams becoming one with the wails of the sky, words lashing out as the rains were melting everything in their path. How things become clearer when blurred…

Day 7:
Running down a slope never seemed so much fun. Crushing the pale pink blossoms under sturdy sneakers and trying to catch the wind in open palms gave a feeling of much needed exhilaration. The crunch of yellowed leaves and gravel, hurtling past wind, to win, to win, to win over that something… always the desired. Morphing into the wanted, camouflaged in the rush of the winds. Running down the slope and meeting someone else…

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