Ain’t no drape. 

I like curtains. Not the feeble, lace trimmed, airy ones. Those ones entice the casual stalker, by softening the otherwise hard lines of a woman’s silhouette. I like the thick curtains which once shut, shut out the world with them. They are fierce protectors. Hanging by heavy rods, falling surprisingly gracefully the length of the window, theirs is an oath to shield. 

Let morning come, in all its noise and gurgle, making an embarrassment of itself, gilding the window frame. But these curtains, they only let the faintest hint of the morning breaking outside to the house. Should you permit, should you choose to, you may usher the morning. Should you find your eyes comfortably shutting, you may lie in bed all day, or watch sopranos, and the morning will be sent out, on its way, till it sulks into night. 

Tomorrow is another day. Another choice to make. Till you make it, the curtain will act the secretary to a high seat and only whisper of visitors to you. You have the royal permission of sliding the hoops of your loyal protector through the unfailing rod. 

Winter washes

Winter heavy with a promise of honey sweet sleep washes all that stands sentry to this great city, to just another slave to sleep. In slumber undisturbed, this city slips deeper and deeper into a lull, until it feels comfortably dead. Like a senile’s demise. Snow White head comfortably rested on a flower patterned pillow cover.

The covers smell of fabric softener, reminding the rested head of faintly scented memories in flower fields of yesteryear. So, deeper they slip.  Until its so comfortable, the memories get stitched to their body, like how monroe was rumoured to get her dresses tailored.

Winter cradles these senile heads in its plump invitation and keeps them there, fondly looking over them, until the vulgarity of buds bursting into flowers disrupts the austerity and it sulkily withdraws, casting longing looks at the senile heads. My city then, will be bathed in parrot green colours and no one will miss winter and its black magic.

Bedroom chills

Looking up at eye level mirror reflections, smiles shot at self’s lemon tinged dark, half taut skin stretched over a narrow frame, arms encircle the said frame, a hybrid hug stemming out of defense and love, head falls back letting the curls loose in the morning bedroom chill, from where a giggle erupts. It could go on forever, this self love. But, there are flyovers to be climbed, handbrakes to be pulled, coffees to be downed and a witnessing pending, of an afternoon turning into sweet sweet night.

Cistern Dreams 

Lying in the cistern of an afternoon, I extend my hand to the faucet, turn it. Pink, frothy water comes gushing out of it, like blood mixed with candy floss and settles at my feet, warm and consoling. Slowly, it fills the cistern, till the water comes over my chest. I drift into sleep.

In my sleep, I am nestled like chiffon at a woman’s waist. I imagine his voice, like sugar left to caramelise, that refuses to. How long has it been since I’ve turned to take a good look at prison that holds this voice for me? It’s eyes, like windows that opened to a camera badly focused, bright. It’s nose, proud and protruding and it’s lips from whence emanated the sound. In my sleep, I encircle the thick neck and stand on my toes, putting my own two lips to his’s, making a soft chirping sound.
The cistern overflows and I turn off the faucet. The water has grown cold and transparent. I step out, shivering and naked, I curl up into a ball under a blanket and text.

Comatose Comfort

There is disease like quality about a closed room. When I say closed, I mean robbed off all light and noise. A ceiling fan turns wretchedly stuck to its rhythm, cursed to creak as days run into years. The virtue of close quartered apartments, is harder to lose as a scrape of any kind on the floor above, sends a screech down your ceiling and walls, reminding you of how non-alone your self inflicted loneliness is.

Your laptop blares blue light, as your thumb flirts with your phone and the only thing that is getting your undivided attention, is the bed. You are stuck to it, like true love’s first kiss is stuck to the human delirium. First Rate Glue. Now and then, your eyes flick around the unchanged room and the room closes in further, making it harder to escape the prison, I like to call ” coma comfort”. You give up too. Its easier to let the semi darkness engulf you whole than to move. Moving takes so much character and right now,  you have the character of  a cardboard cut out lying forgotten at the back of an abandoned house. None.

But, life catches up to you. The evening prayer calls, resounding through the walls, people start coming and going into your room and one of them switches on the light. Ah, the ruin. You have been jerked out of the coma, by a very rude cure, called time. Time to bid goodbye to your infatuation with doing nothing and, oh the floor is so cold against your toes.

Five minutes later, you stand in front of the mirror, water running down your face.

Self Administered Heavy Dose

I love drama. I exaggerate like I am getting evaluated by the drama council of my life. I need to blow things of out proportion for me to make it all comfortable to me. I am my most comfortable when a loud sound is followed by a glitter rain and a tall vase tumbling down the stairs. Keep the tears rolling, keep the eyelashes long and bat those eyes like they are having a seizure. It will not get you true love, but, you will look sensational when you are crying about not getting true love. I am terrible, thank you.

I’ve watched episodes over episodes of successful drama series on my laptop. And as drama series go, they are extreme. Happiness, Anger, love, although love isn’t an emotion. I think, it’s an entirely different ballgame. But, that’s the gist of it. The emotions are extreme.  And, sadness and grief are extreme too.

A few years ago, as I watched men leaving professionally successful women with a reality check to ponder over, in a bed rampaged by last night’s sex, I just watched. I watched it like I would watch a commercial.  I watched women hand over their two year old engagement rings and I watched blankly. I watched people lie down on the floor on my laptop screen, looking blankly up at the ceiling, not answering their phone. I never realized the background music is a blessing. Without that, it would be impossible to watch people disintegrating in front of your eyes. To witness a gutting of a person is impossible to go through without being hallowed out of all sanity.

Today, the background music too betrayed. Because now, when I see someone slide down the door they softly closed on a person they softly asked to go, playing two years of togetherness in their head, I know, I don’t want to feel what they are feeling.  I don’t want to feel what it feels like to sit down on your bed and not have the energy to sleep or the resolve to get up. I don’t want to know what it feels like to get your heartbroken.

And scripted heartbreaks are even worse. Someone took time out, to figure out the lighting, the words, the music, the cameras and of course, it’s perfect, A perfect administration of tragedy into my veins, like a drip over the next three hours after I shut my laptop.