The next day, I woke up early again.
And took my time, own and sweet, to get turned out for the day.
[ As I was always comfortable doing. ]
So I poured myself in the direction of my balcony.
And felt a rich, golden slant of sunshine.
Trickling in to warm me up.
A November morning.
A thick, cool breeze.
A jar of crackers.
A cup of tea.
I sat cross-legged.
With a sun-burnt dream.
That, of becoming a writer.
Some day.
Like a paper rocket softly singeing the sky, my thoughts somehow always tried to mount up.
Ride the winds, and fly.
It has a strange congruence with neatly stacked words.
A rhythm of notes; now low, now high.
****
As I got dressed and started walking through the service road to take the tube, I looked up at the sky.
There was this quest (as it were), to reach the top of the world, through the crosshatched veil of trees and shrubs.
There was this quest (as it were), to reach the top of the world, through the crosshatched veil of trees and shrubs.
I started thinking, for the first time in a while.
Of the merry-go-round of a childhood gone by.
Of my mother.
And dad, of course.
My parents and I, have always been thick.
And when I was small, my relations often used to ask me these two chronic questions:
- "So who are you closer to? Mum or dad?"
- "Who do you think you look like?"
[ Questions, I never tried to answer. ]
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