tonight is the night, that i get back to writing again.
one night, when everything in my world, for once seems unconsciously real, even if-for an hour.
one night, when the past comes circling in millions, as if lost in a forgotten dream.
when the ticking of the clock, does not make any single decibel of sound around my space,
and the moment when shadows refuse to be lit...
i take refuge, once again, one more time, in a dream i know, will never come true..
that, of longing for simplex...
of lying down, under a lifetime of open skies.
of walking the oldest lanes ever formed.
of dipping nibs in ink, and drowning in it afterwards.
of bamboo-stick curtains, and pigeons behind 'em.
of flutes, bicycles, and cricket balls lying deep under almiras-tucked away in dark corners.
graffiti, stories of everyone around's first and second love,
and dreams of a musical everything...everyday...forever...
of poetry and the secret wish, to write in ballimaraan,
and writing whatever writing does to me...
does it?
