I don't know what to say... And I don't know what to feel.. Maybe this is what it feels to disbelieve pathos and parables... To hear every tale, every story yet again... In the subconscious, I touch her hand as we spoke of a A Wednesday...
Thamma, Thamma... I called out to someone who'd seen me grow in to a little woman... in that row house by Goodwill Enclave.. It was just a fortnight ago, on the Christmas day, as chilly Pune air shied away with her warmth...
"Look Rimi's decorated the tree, a little mellow for commemorating the attacks"...
Why?.... Why?.... Why?
This afternoon as Rye writes, her ink dries up just as her voice is lost... the eyes unable to see and how ? How can she?....
The words can never be completed...
sentences a far cry...
Coz I can still smell her besides me... in the stories of a childhood spent at a home away from home... The horror, the morbidity and an ugly despair of senselessness vapourises from the heart...maybe.. all over me...forming an eerie glass prison..where I'm caught.. This time it's all over... there's only the abstract to look at.
Nothing really matters anymore...
Death playing a sublime jazz beating, mocking me from here on...
