It comes creeping beneath your door, like newspaper wrapped in mist on an overcast morning. Sleepy eyed, unsure, unaware, disdainfully, you wake up to an illusion clad is burlesque magenta and violets of yore. You refuse to brave out of the coziness of hard-wrought warmth, until… Until it teases you to a duel. Welcome anxiety!
The window-less room, in a blue haze, purpled with fire deep down your gut, yet you refuse to fight. One, two, three, four, five, six, … moments, just moments before angst seizes you.
On the desert of black roses, you canter on. In search of a silver lining grayed with filaments of a matriculate reality. You don’t cry, you don’t complain, you feed on angst to fight anxiety. The film rolls, reel after reel. And you dance to the tunes of a piper chasing greyhounds in a prairie of winter lights.
Let the thunders clap, let the clouds sneer, let the moonshine be hers, let the pole star shine, the show goes on. Like shadows in a fountain, like rhymes of disdain, like sinister signs, like fools in fall, the show must go on.
The strings make the puppet!
Found scribbled on a napkin in Clove Bar, Powai, Bombay.