It all started on a clear autumn morning when I was getting ready to go to school. Another god damn day of absolute boredom and whiling away precious time. Reading textbooks was never a very wise option. There were enough distractions, and never anything too interesting to think about.

Always too much to imagine. Too little to do. Less work. More play. Somehow. It all fitted in this neat little box of everyday school time normalcy. Looking at normal people act out their made up idea of life. Carrying out self assigned duties and living on the rights they thought they had over their life. While being so oblivious to exactly how slave-like their existence was to just simply every little thing around them.

Maybe it started on multiple days getting ready for school. Maybe every day.. getting ready for more crap everyone had to dish out to the world. Every day, waiting for it to end. Every day. Waiting for everything to make sense. Something to make sense. Everyone to? Someone to? Maybe waiting .. expecting myself to stop expecting. Some day. Some time. Soon. Maybe.

Wondering all the time going through all of this.. what kind of a mental disease is this exactly. Not caring most of the time. Making personal commentary on everything that went on. The madness. Did it go on outside? Or was it inside? Life is just made up of an impossibly long string of rhetorical questions.

Was it an autumn morning? Just a personal version of an Indian autumn. When the monsoon said a weak goodbye. Not wanting to leave me be.. nor did I want to part. Not so easily. Always so heartbreaking. And when the winter sent towards us those cold, damp droughts which I personally liked. It was just a slightly colder version of the sometimes warm misty rain that blessed us on some very lucky days.

It just makes the clockwork of the brain go around so well. Like a little phase of life. A little phase of a normal stressful day.. like the night when I am not as tired as I want myself to be. Never as tired. As the Beatles put it.. a hard day’s night. When I would’ve had been working like a dog the whole damn day and should’ve been sleeping like a log at this time in the night. But I’m not because of the things that I do. It won’t let me be.

Tip tap tip tap. Who doesn’t love the sound of uninterrupted pitter patter raining of words on the blank screen. Like this. All so blank and nice with little black letters forming on the screen. It’s like some real mind magic. God. Makes me a believer. It’s like sufi music when you’re alone and the sun’s shining hard and hot on you.Standing there alone on the roof, standing mindlessly against the railing, looking at the horizon. Feeling your bare feet on the slightly scorching floor. That old nostalgic feeling of cold water being splashed on dust or earth or hard, hot granite. Love it. The smell of it. The sheer shining sights of nostalgia it invokes. Or peace. Like the strums of a lone guitar trembling on to your earbuds..

Sounds of a soft drum drumming drumming.. That little tinkle of a cymbal. Or a loud disoncerting, yet welcome tremble. Random random random. Just like right now. Unsequential ununderstandable. Uninteresting maybe. Unsung, probably. But mine.

The dry summer. Feeling the sun on your brow. Trying to keep it unfrowning. Unseen. The distant horizon. Alone and alive. The sun beating down on you. The music beating to your heartbeat. When everything’s as clear as the summer azure sky. Cloudless. Just blue. Blue all around.

The heart swirling around like a blissful whirling dervish.

Free.

When life is as it is. Not how it should be. On a summer afternoon, alone with the horizon. Hot. Hungry for more. Hung up on life. Happy. Hostile. Home.

Without people. Pain. Perceptual pureness, peppy personalities. Pettiness. Pink pins prickling. So pristine. So unreal.

All ponderous. Pensive. Puns are perverseness. Persuasion and pasty wallpapers to the walls on your brain. Splattered with a plethora of inks and a multitude of injections of intentions. Insiduous. Insane. Ingrained. Preserved and maintained. Whitewashed, put in chemical X and Y and Z. And everything bled.

While the world worked in grey and monochrome. White and black. Like little books on a rack. Not a hundred thousand loose frayed pages of flack. Faulty forays. Faded deadends. Cut up and curated. Ready to be arranged. Sequentially. But never done. Too hard. Too soon.

Those little books on a little book rack. Filled into a sack. And

burned black.