The last time I noticed the giant clock at the station, it was 10:40 pm. The time I am stuck at is 5:04 am. Dawn. The beginning of sun-scented streaks of daylight that I never even experienced. It’s the sunset that mattered. The hide and seeks; how the orange piece of dream would hide altogether seeking the front line of heaven, or hell, the judgement day. How many times did I long for the dead sun rising out of ashes at the brink of darkness! If I am to regret anything, it has to be abstaining myself from getting up beside the Ganges while the sun grins for the very first time. The sunrise was never my favourite. Today I wished to see a sun that kept leading me to its climax, only to reappear in my nightmares the day after. Even till date, I couldn’t get up to keep the sun within me.
Romanticism is a shoddy addiction. Like time. How abstract a concept time is! The moment my body would be touching the last strokes of sunlight, ‘he’ would probably lose his virginity, a certain ‘she’ would lie against the bones of her back to fly back to the stars, a definite ‘you’ would paint the yellow scales of a mermaid.
There were pebbles holding the burden of my swallowed reveries. There won’t be any at the next dawn. Someday I might wake up and consume the sun.