The hot and the cold collide
It is soft and tender, yet wild and free

There is no tomorrow, only now
And oh how it is etched in time!
Fresh hot branding!

As the extremes conflict, they slowly merge

A mellow hiss is all that is left of the time lost in eternity
Forever real
Forever beautiful

He moans like my fantasy
The moon is brimming with radiance
I know this feels wrong yet right
Tomorrow this feeling will be gone and I know it already
But that is the thing about midnight love
It is magical and exists in a realm that is surreal
I visited that realm. Like never before and liked it
There is passion in my lips and longing in my eyes
I am swept away and there is nothing I can do about it

A haze drops and all I see is him and his eyes, trailing all over me
I feel dizzy with wanting and I try to break it off in vain
Something in me has changed. For I have never let anyone do what he did to me
Love

The white spread out like a glorious mess.
It was her favorite gown, now smeared with mud and blood.
I can see her knee from where I am
It is the color of burnt-cookies, skin as supple as honey.

A car was approaching.

Where does that leave me? And her?
The ghost car approached slowly with its light tainting the undisturbed moonlight.
I heard a rustle behind me. I close my mouth shut.
A slight squeak escapes my mouth and the rustling stops.

I look back to see the white gown. It is still there. I relax a bit.
The car is chugging ever so slowly.
Her skin slowly turned yellow.
The light got brighter and sharper, so did my hope.

Suddenly a bright beam falls upon my face!
I see the face of a killer, looming behind the beam.

My body is being dragged, as I shriek in silence.

The white gown got smaller and smaller, as I peered and struggled with the grip on my leg.

Blow!

Now I see dark. A dark I can't explain.

Have you embraced solitude?

In the shadow mountains, cast by the candle's flickering dance. I smell it.
Oh and solitude smells musty, if you are wondering.

One morning, I saw a bird fly into solitude.
The bird tells me solitude sounds like the babbling of water.
She heard what it was like to be in solitude and she loved it.
She only talks to me in dreams now.

The painting on my wall, of a woman, came to life today.
She told me, her name was Murmurs and that solitude tastes like spiders.

How I envy the bird and Murmurs for I still haven't heard or tasted solitude.

Remember the time you stopped to take a peek at the dead man?
I remember the expression in your eyes as you saw the blood trickling from his torn abdomen.
You trailed your glance toward me and then shied away when you caught me looking at you.
We rode back home in silence. Our cycles squeaked rhythmically every time the tyre came a full round.
You occasionally turned over your shoulder to look at me.
I shuddered a bit.

I remember the feeling of being with a stranger for the days to come.

Today I shudder. As I dream of that day.
I roll over to see you sleeping peacefully on your side of the bed.
Still a stranger.

I dream of seeing you. That little boy with a malicious smile.

Just once.

I am filled with the emptiness of a teen.
With my hands crossed behind my head, I am lying down on the floor.
It is gently pouring and the little drops hailing against the banana leaves is a pleasant sound.
I have my feet up the window sill with the curtains fluttering.
My room is dark and I can see the streetlight filtering through the tiny window.

All of a sudden, a familiar smell catches my attention.
Amma is making rasam! My stomach grumbles involuntarily.

Although I am lying here with my feet exposed to the cold breeze, I feel like I am there watching her grind the pepper.

I close my eyes and imagine her moving around the kitchen, asking me to stay out of the way.

I smile.

Rain and rasam had always been a tradition at home and this made me happy.

I open my eyes.

I wipe a tear off as I know I am a thousand miles away from home.

Revisiting a memory...

A time when the world meant something different.
Sitting in my sister’s room, watching her stack her CDs.
I always remember the room being messy. The cupboards are flung open and I can see heaps of books and clothes.
Shell chimes hung from the ceiling. Lavender and white.
With the 4 O’ clock sun streaming in through the window, I remember feeling happy.
Happy for being there.
It always meant a lot to be in her room.
Red Hot Chili Peppers are playing Californication and I just can’t think of anything that would make me happy at the moment.
Soon it will be dark and I will no longer feel the sun’s warmth on my face.
I think amma is making tea.
The smell of sweet ginger tea is wafting through the hallway.
I hear girls playing outside.
Today I don’t want to join them.
At least not right away.
I had to be here.
Feeling warm and fuzzy.

What worries did I have?