Somethings Awry and Wonderful.

I poke myself with the sharp edge of the pencil, before it leaves a dark imprint on my skin. I turn it around and with the little eraser at the head of the pencil, I try to rub off the imprint. It lightens but doesn't quite disappear. In the depths of skin the tingly feeling of the poke still prevails and every now and then it throbs to life. The impregnating sensation of the prick reminds me of the first time I got a shot at the doctor's. He said, it would hurt only a little. I squeezed my nose, and close my eyes and waited for the thorny needle to make it's way down into my veins and extract some red dribbly substance. I tried to think of all the things that made me happy- a trick I learned from my much experienced friends- and before any such image could inaugurate my imagination, it was done.

[Not much has changed since then. A lot of important moments just seem to flash by in seconds and more often than not I miss it. It's just carelessly I think or maybe myopic vision. One or the other way, I tend to overlook.]

The graphite mark still haunts me. It's like a bad taste in your mouth. One that you don't forget for a long time. It might seem trivial and unexciting but it's these little things that have begun to govern the way I perceive things. The whole concept of materializing thoughts into action is a way of life that I can only envision. I often wish I could make it happen but some way or another I'm made aware that I think wrong. It's then that the weary feeling of defeat that begins to carve it's way down in the depths of nothingness. The scornful staring at the ceiling starts to get stronger. The mystical aura around the head seems more prominent and the feeling to loss personifies. When everything around me seems to zoom past and all the lights and sounds seem blurry and muffled- like a bad dream. That's probably it. A bad dream.

A.Big.Bad.Dream.