The day glances at me through cracks in the window-implying another start, only of higher purpose this time. The ten-months have potential of a life-long hangover in the tribulations that are to succeed. Bags fall short of experiences and heart falls short of emotions. Transit has always been like this, hasn't it? Through the haze of uncertainty, one yearns for sunshine. Compulsively looking at the wrist watch while waiting for the bus to arrive.
Demolishing our little home, we proceed to another home. Some look back, some choose to walk straight. I look at my bed-the inscrutable testimony to the things i indulged in. A mob of DVDs jostling against the hard-bounds, offering lessons on anarchy; letters spread like squatter on the filthiest corner of the bed, together influencing my character certificate felicitated at the time of departure.
Out of many other things, I chose to write about my bed for it will be missed more than anything else- the length and breadth of my freedom, the literal metaphor of my space. The poetic dreams that it canvassed along with a few complimentary tears. My bed was truly my home and my pillow a guardian, backing me on cloudy days that represented the Chennai sky
I remember my initial initial nights when I felt like an infant forcefully pushed into an 7 ft adult swimming pool.I was exasperating for air in the tense, competent environment of classrooms and sooner I swam through all of it, with a few modest A's in my kitty. But today, i see the waters swirling and sinking fastidiously in the drain. Hitting the abyss, hurts mildly. A comfortable pain that would evade by the time it's reflected upon.