Pieces of Burnt Paper

I write me, my time

On a flimsy sheet with faded ink,

In a dark room by a flicker of the flame.

In hopes of manifesting,

Realizing myself.

In me I see a girl.

A little girl with long hair,

Dancing about like a painter’s stroke,

On a yellowed canvas.

In a blue frock and plaited hair

And a basket of roses

She runs across the field,

Chases a sparkle, a dream.

Winds come and strike her down,

Rain becomes her glory.

Her flowers wither and fall,

And with time, so does she.

This I write, I write in regret.

It weighs me down like a thousand chains.

I committed a crime that cost my life, 

I let the girl go.

In her place I find now,

A hardened speck in a paper town,

A flat town in a disc world.

With linear souls and pointless emotion

And a fire that doesn’t burn.

With contagious insanity and desire.

This world deceives her,

Blinds and pushes her.

A fire starts on one end,

reaches the other.

In its wake, leaves ashes that are her.

Ashes blow around This World,

defeated but free, unwavering.

This world, but, crumbles around her,

Like pieces of burnt paper.

Guess who's back.

Sleepless. Eyes wide open. Nose equally blocked. No luggage. Bah.

Well this was a bummer.

To tell you the truth i had expected a bit more. From myself really. But then hey, im sick. Coming here this time doesn't seem like the woohoo scenario I imagined. Infact its quite the opposite. You're sitting in class going .. nuclear. Fuel. Combustion. Hmm combustion. Human bodies do that. Necrosis fascitis. Ugly pictures. To BAM energy and why? Because everything is clawing at you and constantly whispering in your ear, 'have to have to do good'. It was pretty annoying really. I had expected some sort of raw hungry-for-knowledge enthusiasm which turned out to be more like eh-nose-icantbreathe-mylungsareabouttoexplode-blekhiasm. The only thing that has found perfect space is that absolutely heavenly bookshelf which solves my bedside table problem. Really, my bedside earlier was actually the marble floor.

Whats more, after two years of experience I forget to carry that infernal umbrella around and ended up drenched and cold with some really smart people playing volleyball on the basketball court with a football rather expertly. I realise suddenly that I dont really have a place to eat apart from the greasy and spicy restaurants which, may I point out, I'd usually love. Ah, what's better than a piping hot, overspiced, bread pakoda in the chilling rain. And then there's the ginormous realisation of tomorrow's queue hassle for the satanic ritual of paying the fee.

This day couldn't be better. Ah sweet Manipal.

On a rather forcibly optimistic note, tomorrow is a new day. Full of getting things done and setting agendas.

Oh who am I kidding. Im too bleh to think that way. Things are going to be same. Mundane and dry. Hell I might snatch a couple of fun moments what with the weekend and all. Even if that is a lord of the rings marathon. But there are no sisters here. No gossiping with mom or dad. No watching cwg with family. Cheering the Indians on and secretly checking out hot diver bodies. No wayward imagination of worlds on specks. No hot soup of ugly veggies.

I miss you hot soup of ugly veggies.