"He sends flies to wounds that he should heal!"

Past midnight. Aches hovering about the gut, piquantly palpable, squeezing the confessions out of nowhere. The scent of an ardour, love, as invisible as its meaning, smudges the air, dragging its reel all over the space I occupy, debouching unwelcomingly all over the room which got moulded itself by my habits, the room which laughed, flied, smiled, teased, idled, read, cried, pitied and raged along with me. Three sculpture men, part of a miniature trio, one with a flute, and the others with a drum and a sitar sitting hard and firm right above my view with its characteristics closed eyes and torpid faces. And how I longed for a parallel, for a numb heart, for torpid feelings and forgetful love. The mind refuses to be tranquil, and turns bluntly towards the wall, unyielding to my tears, to my half broken importunes.

Leaning on to my shelf, I tried to smell the pages, fondled the books, groped for a volume, to consume me, to snuff out this hissing tempest. The author fails to save me. Or I am opaque to the offer. Everything else look avid, passionless, faint and lethargic to that which stands out as impassioned and fierce within me. Appalling love. I see the world is blurring, slowly getting discoloured, the outline merges with the contents, the contents getting spilled out, turning into an awful amorphous vision. Gravity looses, sounds getting muted and time freezes. I wanted to take back all my wishes. Take back some moments that lead to our goodbyes and abstentions. People always want to betray themselves, to revel in the lies they carve out safely, to a play in the dirt for they know not why. I couldn't see anything less stale in this fragmented world, that’s as beautiful and grave as you, that is as beautiful and pithy as we together. As rapturous and wild as our sweet dualisms and contradictions. But we send ourselves “flies to wounds that we should heal”! May be because the healing will dilute and quench the passion that is drowning us now. Or maybe because we cringe together from sending flies to others’ wounds, that we may not eschew from inflicting if the passion grows and swoons. For reasons as decrepit as customs, as dry as logic, as relative as time and space. Or as simple and unambiguous like archaic submissions and conformities.

I stood stranded as the small puddle below the window mirrored my rippled face with a flinching nose. The night’s heavy downpour seemed eternal though it gave way to silence as I cried my eyes out.