Midsummer Madness

She woke up to an everyday of morning hours of minute by minute scheduling, on to a harrowing hell of a workplace. The only possible redeeming factor was her new clothes. Yes, she was perhaps, a very superficial person. Detached by decision, intuitive by hormones, loved beyond reasons and disliked unreasonably, she put on the music in the car. It was very difficult to make her irritated, but the sun succeeded. First thing in the morning, it had to be loud. With the staunch attitude of an aristocrat autocrat it even overshadowed the predicted monsoon.

 

Through the day of endless hours stretching into a meaninglessness, her madness found its true colour. She was turning grey, one with her new apparel. The more restless she went within, the more stoic she appeared to others. She was continually thinking of life and the shades it shows, constantly. She was cooking up a recipe for escape and then cooled down like the fizz of an aerated drink that dies down the moment it is uncorked. She was everywhere between the stitches of regulations. She was with the patch of sky as seen from the semi-open blinds, she was with the various dashes and commas of her life all the while seeking a full-stop. She was in her summertime sadness.

 

The people around her bothered her the least, the pages more. They called for her attention, they called for a new chapter. She was distracted with the sights and sound in the sky, and the smell which strangely could not permeate through the locked doors and windows. Perhaps it was the sense of what-would-be, that broke through to the soul. She went up to the blinds and pulled them open completely. Her boss jokingly asked her to take an outside breath before the rest of the work would be met with. She walked out. 

 

The sky looked different, and familiar. It had mellowed down with a madness that she was only too well aware of, it wore her all over. Torn between a desire to rundown the stairs and get drenched, and to make stories of the sky, she turned to go back to where she did not belong.

 

She was a song, of madness, sung sometimes lovingly sometimes longingly. She was everything that others owned. She was the dash that could be filled by anything you wished to.