Untitled

Its past midnight
and there are vehicles on the road
He sits in his room
and lets the sounds trickle in.
The sound of raindrops falling,
the rustle of rubber on wet glistening roads,
the windchime in the balcony,
and the guttural barks of a pack of dogs
- all trickling in, slowly, from different infinities.


There is a higher sense of being today,
amidst all the sounds, he feels,
a sense of being that a cacophony of broad daylight noises can never offer
a sense of being that has eluded him
the last one year and beyond.


But it rains today in the middle of december,
and rain, as he knows very well, can stir things up.


He sits there and thinks,
about the extent to which a man can flee-
from being strangled by his own thoughts,
conniving, theiving his escape,
slowly, drifting into a jarred sense of disconnectedness, or bloated happiness
or both.
He sits there and feels,
a wheel turning.


Somebody returned home today after a little while.