Pages fly

As I stare at a computer screen now, I feel heavy. My head is throbbing, not with pain, but with some strange set of thoughts. I am hearing words, but not too much sense. I put my luck at stake, to understand the world of letter. Pincodes and postal officers have created hell of a lot of confusion killing my enthusiasm in this whole venture. So, I have decided to be persistent, to live against this cold blooded murder. I read of a nurse tending to a burnt patient, wandering in her solitude. I feel new. I feel old. I feel me. I know I desperately want certain things. If you cut open my head, you will see an iron mesh, dark and hard sealing my brain, my flesh, my blood, the nymph. The nymph of the blue world. The world of the blackbirds. Fly. An obsession. Cameras click, studios build. I am sleeping in a corner, at a recording studio. People speaking, dubbing, acting, morphing scenes. Living truly. The air-conditioned hall is causing a chill to crawl down my back. I am wrapped in a blanket on cushions, the child of the sets. A child brought up in these wrapped blankets, crowded nights, and ancient rooms, next to a cardboard box. Today, I'm home. The air-conditioner is on. I'll be wrapped, in some blanket, in some corner. The pages of a book are flying. My pens are rolling in the wind. The curtains fly with my dream clouds. A floating spring. I think. I dream. I am. I am curled up, next to a cardboard box.