I often wonder what am I so preoccupied about that I can't pick up a pen and write.. I can't sit down and think about things. Things that mattered to me once, about thinking itself. My weird little thoughts when I was a child. I would associate people's faces with weird animals, would crease every line on their face and every reaction of their's in my mind, of what is happening inside my body at that precise moment... blood flowing into veins and out of arteries into my heart, of my flesh, bones and my skull.
Its really weird, isn't it? And then I would think of thoughts itself, how they flow in and out, how they open myriad windows in my mind, each jutting off into their own rambles simultaneously, of things which I barely notice nowadays, like the trees, the centipedes that sit clustered in hundreds on the moist cement pavement which I happen to notice as I go to class everyday, of the beautiful designs and patterns on their wriggling bodies, how the million nerves of a leaf get illuminated and revealed by the sun's rays falling into each particle of the leaf, of the ants crawling everywhere, into horizontal and vertical planes alike, about their six tiny feet moving back and forth and propelling their bodies forward.
Of the patterns on my skin, tiny little lines on my body that appear when I bend my wrist or stretch it, of how my nerves and skin stretch and my blue veins show mildly through my translucent skin on my feet, of the million patterns on my skin, my moist, dusky skin, of my short hair that curls up to my ears and how it flies in the direction of the breeze, the tiny dimples that appear on the both sides of my chin whenever I smile.
about my keyboard which doesn't have the number 9 key, once I noticed a dead frog turned upside down on the road, not a rare scene in my campus. It might have probably been hit by a bus. I sat down next to it and looked at it closely and thought about its green and yellow slimy skin covered in dirt, of how it lay there its legs spread and in complete peace... Why should we always associate death with tragedy? It is actually peace, when I tread near the bamboos, I also tend to observe the dried, yellow, long leaves, how they crumble into crisp dust of yellow when crushed and flow out of my hands when I blow them away, but as I smell them, the smell of dry bamboo leaves stick to my hand.
Do you see where we have come? We have come to my life right now and I have come to thinking like I did when I was a child! :)
I am glad you accompanied me in my little weird journey!
Comments
Post a Comment
Speak your mind