Monologue

Self is not fixed; world is ever changing. Self remains stagnant in constructed definitions; world appears to be changing but is it really so? Exist in polarities. No good or bad; maybe one moment I feel like having just plain prata, the next I might want to eat it with sugar. Write love letters on coffee stained napkins, smudged over tear marks. People have too many opinions over things, anything; like a never ending roll of toilet paper. Space delineated, need to dissolve boundaries. Do you really imagine the sea to be endless and unfenced? The sky is its borders, the sky its impenetrable wall.

Go away.

What?

Let me be.

In that lethal mood where everyone who gets in my way, I feel like thrashing. The ones who can accomplish the things I can’t, and the ones who fail in every aspect. We can only complain till the point when guilt sets in. The guilt that we can read and write and eat and live.

Nothing. There is no focus and definitely no need for specificity. We talk in circles, anyway.