As September approaches near, she starts searching all the words that are even remotely related to love, joy and miracles; believing that she will find her name in their thesauruses.

 And when the night, with the three-quartered moon, peeps in her room, she dreams a prohibited dream, about her and him, about them being together, so close together that their shadows are merging into one – bittersweet, because everything is possible in dream, and only dreams.

I forbid it because I think that she has a perennial lack of romance for anyone but self, she is such a narcissist that she can love no one beyond the realm of herself, where she is the pyrrhic queen where she is the fairy-princess. And under the impression she creates an edifice of her self-love with thick concrete; no valiant warrior may intrude in. 

I guess I have thought it all wrong.

She is looking and smiling at me and the rose petals are losing their glory, its beyond all repair now, not even the smoldering rules, she lugubriously made and set to fire in the end, can nudge her back now.  She had meticulously glued every shred of her philosophies in correct places but now she wills to let go.

She is seeing the colors ahead – all the shades of red. She is engrossed in herself and playing with the tuft of her hair. God! She is dancing under the mauve sky, humming to the winds, kissing the flower and smiling in the mirror!

(sometime back in past: she chokes, retains position, shrieks, resists, fails to resist, cries and stumbles!)

(Now: ) She’s falling. Someone save her please.

On Tuesday when the colors merged, suffused by brooding night; and the horizon was streaked with gloomy lines, I said my prayers and tired of talking to the lifeless bricks of my room, crossed the threshold of kitchen – with a lump in my heart, as if a novice.

 It seemed eons ago that I last entered here. I opened the taps and listened to the water draining, it sounded as if I was crumbling in the filthy slush-pile of all the gratuitous insults. The waves crested near the gutter in the sink and I felt as if my spirits had been crashing in the saline beads, which haunt memories like receding water waves. I felt void, empty, shattered, broken and I tried to drown my sorrows in the ebb and flow. The trails of conscious memory resisted but faded away. 

The serpent pierced its jaws in the preys flesh, and cherishes its blood. Nothingness lingered on my lashes. It evoked the undefined loneliness in me and I plumbed the depths of it. It was luring in a murky way. The morbidity ruled me and I surrendered to it. Whined because I had nothing to whine about.

Desperate, I chopped the onions, made the shami kababs and cried to my heart’s content.

Trumpets of death gloomily muffled. Hey, onions are the reason don’t blame me!

(I’ve been reading my old diary again, found this entry of late 2005. or maybe very early 2006. Please comment)