Pic: Kolkata, May'09Time flies by fast and quiet. Every night I go to bed thinking about the next day. But somehow the thoughts are hazy enough to confuse me into believing that there is no shape to them. I wake up every morning with broken memories of those thoughts. A cup of bitter coffee and a window full of stark sunlight break into me. And I stretch my aching legs.
I am growing old, I ponder sometimes over a burning cigarette and the morning newspaper. As if to confirm it, I sometimes bend my back suddenly to feel if the ache is still lurking there. And then I smile, when I find it safe and kicking. I have to get back into shape, I scold myself before lighting another cigarette.
Sometimes, in the morning, just before pushing open the door to the loo, I breathe in. Lungs feel like sandpaper, rubbing against each other to create that dry wheezing noise. The burning sensation lasts till I take a sip of that bitter black coffee.
I think about my life. I go back to the days in school and run across uneven territory to my present. I find a consistent trend in the way I have always reacted to things happening around me. I wonder, sometimes, about what I want to do in life.
These questions just don't throw up any definite answers anytime. But they help me to kill time till the clock points out that I am late for work.
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