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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