It’s me and the ochre light again.

I’ve been talking to myself, reading poetry, looking at photographs, sitting on a chair, eating air, lying down on my bed, feeling the warmth of the laptop on my tummy, closing my eyes, thinking random thoughts that are like stars in a constellation, connected only by imaginary lines, listening to the frays, writing, crumbling and basket, playing with an ant, burying my head under the pillow, all under the ochre light that is life.

Oh, and the “normal life” i lead has been full of footnotes, moots, tests, 7’o clock mornings and 16 hour days (is it ever, ever anything else?). All that’s normal. The problem is life is too…normal. Oh well the problem is always something or the other.

I have stuff to write, stuff that’d fill Jill’s pale of water and flow down the hill to never-never-wonderland, fly up to the sky, beyond the blue into the black, but I dont wish to write, neither do i want to speak, i just want to think, and I’ve been thinking, been thinking about the fourteen frogs i spotted last night, the moonlight that is nothing but dim-white-sunshine, the impossibility of me flying and those droplets of brine that we call crying. No point, i cant still find a way to reach me. But why a point? Cant it all just be pointless, like people walking backwards, eating water and drinking food, jumping off the terrace, drawing squares and circles on the answer sheet, la-la-ing in an interview and being happy? I wonder…

And yes i do wonder what the above words are an expression of, maybe just the “me”, or maybe something else? who knows? I dont, you certainly (hopefully) wouldnt. A question mark, a big black question mark with a bold dot.

No, don’t even think about it…

Later world…