It really is

Silvery white waves of foam on pristine blue. Rising in a glorious ark and then stooping down, its peak glistening in the afternoon sun. This is where it all happens. The sun is only drooping down on us, bathing us. But the sea has secrets in it. It ancient and roaring and sad. I stand there for a while, scooping up sand and throwing it into the waters, but the sea's decided long ago - it won't take anything from us. We may bathe ourselves all we want. We may dance on its waves, feel its tremor over our skin, rinse ourselves of all the loss of purity, but we can never be a part of it.

This is where we die a happy death. People sitting on the sand, couples making love, people making love with their own selves, with the waters. I stare around in complete awe, for this is a fiesta, a great giant orgy of human flesh and water, a mingling of existences, a chance to go beyond the conformity of your shoes and clothes.

There is always the chance that you may run past the sea. You will feel a breeze gently kissing your shoulders, the receding waters lapping your feet. You will have to stop and look around and it hits you again.

You may not believe me. You can't, not till you've come here and seen it all for yourself. It really is the sea.

They merge into themselves, as if dissolving into the sky, and then they scatter aside, beautifully parting sideways, opening up a narrow office through which i can see clear blue. The evening air is only damp, only, only.

Smoke curling up in various haunting shapes, wriggling with its own pieces before fading away, and with that my hopes also plunge down, i give into the possibility of what i saw earlier, that this is a dream and I only wanna wake up.

You think its gonna swallow you, rather, you think you'll take pride in the image of your self, in your reflection, but I have to go back once again to a thing i heard recently, but that was said long long ago.

Imagine a room. No windows, no doors. Grey, drab and sad. And there's music somewhere. Are you free? Am I free?

Sweet smell of incense suddenly takes my breath away, i am shamed, i leap a mile away from those rank earlier smells of the day. How infantile is my imagination, how frail my perception of myself, only that harrowed creature that stares back at me from the surface of clear glass, nothing else, not even a mystery.

An old song rings hollow through my ears now, it is night time, the doors and windows are all shut, the earth is bereft of all noise but the hollow dull ringing of loneliness.

Tragedy is Gregor Samsa being given the boot my the charwoman who worked at their house. Oh, Gregor, oh.

Yeah, i just read Metamorphosis. it's quite extraordinary.

Days are spent with the wheezy cough and a wait for that funny jolt I get before i start panting for a lack of breath.It isn't much worth living. Only the engaging company of a very engaging paperback named Kafka on the shore keeps me alive. For the time being. Or else. Who knows?

Fuck, man.

Desperately in need of a blank page. One i can write on. Write anything other than crooked line integrals and draw figures as far removed from the roundness of say, an equipotential surface. I think i might be driven soon to insanity, I keep dreaming of being swallowed by a wormhole. Or falling through a vacuum. This is all so surreal, I might just be a very depressed, a very hungry electron for all I know.

A grey realization

And well, tonight, its raining sultry in Kolkata, i feel like logging into youtube and checking out the weather in Buenos Aires, find out if the sky over the country, so far removed from our own, the one for which I seem to be burning in dismay, is anywhere as sad as the sky over this city this night.

I will admit unabashedly that the dream was shameless. It is only after its over that you realize that. For even now, there is no shame, only a strange realization, as grey as the sky.