you lived across the street on the hill ward side. over there, the sun sank in splendor every evening. I'd often look up at the orange sky and wonder if i'd ever see anything more beautiful.
i lived in a tiny hut with a fig tree growing near by.

On one such splendid evenings i decided to walk up the hills, i was about to lose my little hut as i had discovered cracks on the roof and depleted walls. I suspected that they would be washed down to somethings resembling little mud pools, by the next rains.

You stood there amidst the clouds settling on the slanting trees on the hill top.
I spoke with you and perhaps hoped to share my misery in the fear of losing the only thing i had built.
You looked at me with a strange sort of kindness and appeared majestic- God like.
Took out your shepherd's stick and said " Not unless I poke the clouds".
And i had feared you ever since.


It was as if all had to mean everything it could, at once. all had to fall in place and this was the very instant being waited for.
I wondered whether i was naive to feel pity for the meaningless excesses that would be left out.
In a utalitarian world, things began with a purpose. it had to be a fixed commodity, could be measured and assessed in terms of more utilities.
And here i have been, forever putting more punctuations than needed and staggering along a longer route home.

Most of the life that i have lived so far, i had been preoccupied with my daze and day dreamings
As an adult i was encouraged to make friends and be more participative in such social functions.
I realised that there was this crazy interdependance involved in each one of them and that they too are misjudged on the basis of outcomes.

I am post collegiate. I ought to find a job and a place in the world.
And all my wavering thoughts gather amidst the holy mess of my room and unsyncronised life.

These are the most unproductive days..:)