I really thought I had worked out a perfect analysis of what was wrong with the world and superbly identified the single point of failure, which if we could overcome would make the world a much better place to live in. I went over it once again and found myself laughing at it, for I could not figure out if it was just too right or just way too stupid. But the moment has passed, I have disowned whatever little seriousness I could attribute to it and moved on to more mundane and routine problems related to the daily drag.
Actually, I have been wanting to buy candles. Candles, a lamp shade and a lava lamp for reasons of pure self-indulgence. I need to buy a new quilt too. The old one is wasted. Winter is gently making its overtures felt in the air, by early morning, night and late evening. By six the light is dull, with a mild orange hue, masses in search of warmth, group. While, above a mild haze gathers. Roasted peanut and boiled egg sellers shall set up shop soon, selling warmth in search of a living while we make a living to expend ourselves in search of warmth.
I am a fly-by-night operator, I am your choicest hit-and-run thug, pay me loose change and I am your man for all occasions, only if you do not ask me to stay for long. I always have to keep moving. I am your long-distance truck-driver with genuinely bogus delivery schedules. I am just driving round and round in the city, while pretending to be on the highway and I cannot find my exit route. Twenty-thousand miles I know by-heart, I know every nook and cranny, every by lane that ever existed, I have a full tank, all I have ever needed is a destination.
I can't call you tainted, I can't call you imperfect, I can't call you ugly, I can't call you a sinner, I am all that and more, in degrees that are worse. My silence is not one of understanding, but of guilt and I smile not out of joy but to get a temporary reprieve from the constant onslaught of boredom born at the edifice of pain. You are the cast that I mold myself on, the newborn skin I paint on myself to fake a better appearance. You are the being that gives form, albeit temporary, to my nothingness. You are my fickle measure of time, in my sentence of eternity.
Or we could just run, I could hold your hand, run across the land with wind-swept waist-high grass till the edge of time and watch the rocks fall into the deep dark unknown. Just moments before the sun rises above the horizon casting another of its daily spells on the landscape, changing the tall grass into buildings and the interim into their ugly shadows. And to turn around to find the feeling of your gentle strands of hair caressing my face had long transformed itself into another of the cold gusts from the alleyways, which I will take again for that flight again in search of the light of darkness.