After Time

A smattering of rain, irregular traffic, skyscrapers that dare scrape the sky and poverty that dare be ubiquitous, claustrophobic hotel rooms and cute bell-boys greet me. I greet back.

Hello, world.

Nobody gives a second person a chance.
I will call that an after time experience.
The second needs to create.
The first is always a giving class, in general.
We tend to get a bit fuzzy when we think of our lovers.
But the lovers keep on motivating us like hell.
We will do some talking now in our dreams.
I can share our conversations tomorrow perhaps.
We will keep on trying.
We will in some way.

I don’t remember now what was it that we talked about.
If I remember I’ll come back to that.
I know a man who can love and count till 19.
So whenever asked about his age, he cool-ly says ’19’.
19 is a magic number to him.
The 19 Ampere current flows cool-ly too from the eyes of his lover to his and creates a mild intoxication.
Like 2 half pegs of vodka or whatever taken with time in a naturally cool place  and then walking out in the Sun.
Perhaps in a cold afternoon.
The lids close to the perfect magnification.
You smoke and the breeze or the cold warmth or both carries you along.
The leg just walks.
The eyes just see.
The mind just thinks.
And the song plays.
And then the things might get rattled up naturally.
The mosquitoes bite you.
Then you think of the electronica of the partitioning.
Craziness whips you down.
You then try to hide the smell that was getting bother-less-ly removed from your intestines some time earlier.

As I walk through a maze of human bodies and squalor, side-stepping puddles of muddy water that the erratic rain leaves behind, a gentle breeze slips like silk through my fingers. My consciousness without permission fragments and my fingers, of their own volition, feel forlorn. The rest of me takes stock of the world as I pass it by, one step at a time, but my fingers.. my fingers are forlorn. The breeze rekindles in them memories of a yesterday, of a you, of a me and of ‘inside jokes’ that our interlinked hands held and kept. I stutter in my step but ever so slightly. The maze thins a little.

The just 19 Ampere current hit you hard and fuse you up.
Then you pass by a colourful house which gives you cushioning.
A colourful madman.
A kingly beggar.
A confident clerk.
A filmy auto-driver.
A not too serious scientist.
A philosopher who plays football.
A businesswoman who plays cards.
An analyst weaving cloth.
And my grandmother cooking steady and creating abnormal stuffs with wool.
Things nurture you down to that zero state.
You become ready for a new 19 Ampere current.
It might bog you down a little faster but that’s okay. 
A mystic who abuses.
That’s okay.

Hello, world.

Scribble: Just throw it. That’s all we can do.

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