Chhuti,
Why do I write letters to you? The reasons could be finger-counted as many. Then again, the same many could be cancelled as no reasons at all. The repertoire could include all that imagination is and more than what reality could ever be. It anticipates a time that I am in and it forecasts things that may never be. I write to you because I write to you. When the ink blots and the narrative unfolds, they become you. An inspiration? A conspiracy? I always like keeping it to friendship.
Too much time, Chhuti, what does one do when in it? One is blamed for forgetting others, and overseeing the normal course of things and not knowing how to boat back to the banks of schedules. It is difficult, tell them, love. To be in the center of a sweet, enticing nothing, holidaying with the endless days and romancing away the nights, absolutely non-cinematically and nonchalantly. To knowingly dive into this whirlpool of non-doing -- it is a metred whimsy -- one which only perhaps you would understand. I have allowed the blame to surpass my conscious. Often I sway by it, only to return to you. It is not easy to live in a tale. It is easier to create one instead.
Very soon, you won't be in this extravagant indulgence that you are now. And whilst at it I am immersing myself in you. I wonder if you ever had another one seep up so much into your flavour. The dailyness of a day is very near, I know, I can say, even though pay-cheques disagree, yet, I write less and live in more stories today.
In good faith that tomorrow I will create another.
A tale with you,
K.
Why do I write letters to you? The reasons could be finger-counted as many. Then again, the same many could be cancelled as no reasons at all. The repertoire could include all that imagination is and more than what reality could ever be. It anticipates a time that I am in and it forecasts things that may never be. I write to you because I write to you. When the ink blots and the narrative unfolds, they become you. An inspiration? A conspiracy? I always like keeping it to friendship.
Too much time, Chhuti, what does one do when in it? One is blamed for forgetting others, and overseeing the normal course of things and not knowing how to boat back to the banks of schedules. It is difficult, tell them, love. To be in the center of a sweet, enticing nothing, holidaying with the endless days and romancing away the nights, absolutely non-cinematically and nonchalantly. To knowingly dive into this whirlpool of non-doing -- it is a metred whimsy -- one which only perhaps you would understand. I have allowed the blame to surpass my conscious. Often I sway by it, only to return to you. It is not easy to live in a tale. It is easier to create one instead.
Very soon, you won't be in this extravagant indulgence that you are now. And whilst at it I am immersing myself in you. I wonder if you ever had another one seep up so much into your flavour. The dailyness of a day is very near, I know, I can say, even though pay-cheques disagree, yet, I write less and live in more stories today.
In good faith that tomorrow I will create another.
A tale with you,
K.
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