Interior monologues on a full moon night

 

White is an oppressive color.

3 am and the familiar mental buzzing is all it takes to dissolve the writer’s block.

Caring is good, or so they say.

How about just disappearing? Don’t pack; just run.

Escapism- that is the way to survive.

And we call the symbolists depressing.

Do you my friend see what I see?

The haze and the mist in all its glory; towering on us like Nessie the myth.

Can’t a dragon in the hill ever get forlorn? Or are giants the one without hearts.

Could you and me walk down the beach hand in hand and still be you and me the next day?

Or do we, too, succumb to the great evil of the heart?

Cupid is but a child with a plastic arrow. How is it that anybody takes him seriously?

The rain has a weird relationship with the coffee mug.

They stay close but never touch.

The disgusted hands pour the bitter amrit down the black hole if at all it dares to sneak a kiss.

The moral of the story- look but don’t touch.

The land beckons to the clouds; the clouds tease.

A fortnight later, they break and shower down on the paramour.

A day later, the earth chokes and its fruits die. Moderation is the title of the next lesson.

 

Well at least the house fly sits away from the buttering knife.

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Dawn

Midnight- Camera flashes. Music blares from the speakers. Conversation turns into babble.

The vodka and tonic hits. The speed thrills. The lights blur.

Empty. That’s how she feels.

 

Dawn- birds chirp. Head hurts. Stomach growls.

Sleep comes. The mind tickles. Hands tremor.

Darkness. She draws the curtain.

 

Afternoon- Heat prickles. Head pounds. Memory of last night is a big question mark.

Facebook tells her what she has been doing. It’s 3 pm. It’s late.

Rise and shine. What is the use in waking?

 

7 pm- Her twin screams. She sees Virginia Woolf on the table. Head throbs.

Bell rings. The pizza is here. The book beckons.

Sanity. Who does she discuss The Lighthouse with?

 

10 pm- Same fakeness. Same mindlessness. The vodka and tonic again.

Same music. Same lights. Same rootlessness.

Bollywood. Let’s be baby dolls together.

 

3 am- Head pounds. Speed is blah. Lights play checkers in her head.

Mr. Ramsay’s mind is his enemy. Woolf haunts her. The Lighthouse calls.

Laughter. It’s all a show isn’t it?

 

9 am- No sleep. The paper smells good. Words are a visual delight.

The coffee is strong. The light pours in. The bedsheets are spotless white.

Breakfast. Seems like a good idea.

 

1 pm- Mrs. Ramsay loves her husband. She smiles. Time passes.

War starts. Smile fades. War ends. Time passes.

Order. It feels nice when the house is back in order.

 

5 pm- The marmalade tastes good. Lily finishes her painting. James is content.

Smile returns. The incense smells good. Her twin is happy.

Dinner. It’s time to cook some broccoli and pasta.

 

Life is good.