I wear a denim hat every night jamming with baggy t shirt and outgrown shorts, while indistinct favourites lie on my bed. A second-hand Ayn Rand, The Beatles echoing through the see-through deep blue curtains. A nerdy minion, enraptured by the brown cover of a book, is slipping out of the bookmark at page 80. A minion with an envious giant moustache. A frightening visual treat, indeed. Several off-the-rack emoticons are getting hungry for another trick or treat. And a new word to learn ‘Xenagorabibliomania’ which apparently means an obsessive curiosity about the books that strangers read in open spaces. Why am I talking about grey terms? Maybe tonight is about regular endeavours. A swashbuckling good-for-nothing night. A night not to disclose secrets but to create one from the scratch. A brand new crumpled page of vague incentives. For me, nights are about the sense of seclusion right in the stomach of all the commotion of lights and shadows. It’s almost like to be in a distant land with my own stream of sequestered thoughts.
It’s almost 4 am in the morning. I don’t want tonight to end. The sun may come out any minute now, refusing the portrait of dark smoke. I look at my reflexion in the mirror of moon streaks. At the greenroom, the bits of moon are getting ready to undergo the humiliation of another sun. The rustic madness that’s gripping my throat will soon be over and the voices of humanity will find its chord for a new day. Three-course meals and a new sunrise. For years I wondered why sleep couldn’t get hold of me like a regular scheme of life. I looked it in the eye and lured it away to the people of daily means. I’m a nonchalant owl who lives for the hours of physical silence, more than an infamous shower. I need my madness to put up with the hallucinations of tomorrow. Is it darkness that keeps me sane? I can prompt my thoughts when the stars reflect the blurry reflections on my eyes.
Then, yesterday flashed by the window. I happened to witness a Vesuvius in the sky. The sun bent down and the clouds rolled over him with fifty shades of blue. Pink, orange and blue-the three musketeers. I witnessed heaven coming down to earth and getting stuck in the middle by a booby trap of mystique. I wanted the clouds to fall on me so that I can taste their lips with my own. I followed the fluffy clouds until they could get rid of my stubborn vanity. Till the end of colours.
For another sunset to come, the sun must get up. Though I don’t want to part with my pseudo-intellectual state, I must let myself dissolve in the cacophony of another day. I can’t hide behind the chunk of dreams of my own creation forever. Days are beyond the finitude of my patience; nights are the buoy to my captain.
Unfiltered and reckless.