the boy under the stairs
a seasoned writer gets back to how he started off - plain and amateur. In that he hopes writing doesn't leave him.
It’s peak afternoon here and coastal summer gets really humid in kochi. the precipitation hangs in the air, dampening the folds and leaving beads of sweat where you least expect them. but at present, I’m blessed with streaks of breezes that tend my hair often. I don’t feel the wrath of the sun. but it’s upwards of thirty-two degrees here. I see the heat play on the ice cream vendor’s face. he frequents the road banging his iron plate. pretty old school. he is senile too on an atlas bicycle. old ways, die hard. but I’m all in for retro so I like the vibe. grainy films, vignettes, blown-out lights, and vinyl are my thing. the banging descends when the old chap reaches the far end of the road and it all comes back as he approaches near like clockwork, rhythmic but unpleasant. that’s what I feel about time a lot lately. a failed rendition of events and consciousness. for all we have is the moment. contrary to popular opinion it’s not uncertain, it’s there if you are in it. I intentionally took off my glasses before I sat here to write. sometimes the world looks better in a blur, without the rich details, texture or intricacies just a vague hint of familiarity. when you cry you’d not want to see the stains on the mirror. It feels good when your tears mirage your absolute reality while not taking it away from you. also, I’m not crying nor I’m in a state to. your boy is tough. It’s just a mind that’s rambling and hands that are typing. you might think about where I’m going with this. to be honest, nowhere. I’m not limiting my writing. It can flow and lead on its own. I’m taking a backseat and watch it unfold like you. life is a lot similar. we bound it with rules, misunderstandings, limits, and guilt and it starts going out of our hand. when we allow things, we have the power to watch its course. we’re the observer. one should know when to interfere and when to take a backseat and let life happen. wish I was patient when things got out of control and knew they aren’t to be controlled. then I realise life is a knit of wishes and hope that brings together a meaningful piece. only when you turn it inside out, you see the knots that tie it, the overstitch that mends it and it’s not as beautiful as it looks on the outside. more or less everyone has damage that the world cant see. we are all warm sweaters, with messy knots. ofcourse, handstitched and not readymade. ain’t we all unique? to mindfulness and prosperity.
Let life happen to y’all gracefully!