So here I step out; in the cool wind of dead winter, walking carelessly without a clue in my head. Sometimes, I have this strange feeling of carrying a dead soul inside me. There are some days when I am completely decaf and done with myself. All those high hopes seem to be dope that I refuse to quit despite of the heavy psychological damage they do to me.
I am walking. The paths I used to take to pay regular visits to riverside Ghats, where I sat for hours in those days and felt happy and poised.
I haven’t written anything since months and today when I write this, I feel I am completely out of the narrative. All I write is shit.
Now that’s what about writing. You leave it and it’s all gone to dust. And still, I will feel good if I finish it. For it would be a start again.
I walk down the cold streets crossing by small huts filled with the heavy grey smog of burning wood and charcoal. I smell the life that never stops. It’s the trail in this unending rush of life that keeps you warm, even when the world is frozen. As I walked past the boulevard of gulmohar trees, I felt tiny drops of drizzle on my bare neck. It’s been months, I tuned into my playlist. Bach, Mahler, Mozart, Floyd, bowie, Franklin, Sinatra, Presley.
Now imagine this. My bare feet dipped in the warm currents of river, the haze of blue horizon, the cool wind on my nose tip, the setting sun, the melting music, the distant enchantment of priests, kites in the sky, birds flying by, no one around, arms tightly bound, the hustling bridge in sight, the distant city lights, and me. Just me. And nothing else except a pen, a paper and a tired soul.
I could write more but won’t . Right now I am lost and my mind is blank.
But I am sure, there will be a journey back home.
Image source: –>Google
By Tej Pratap, India