[Last night, when wisdom tried to indoctrinate me,
I switched off my cell phone,
logged out of Twitter,
and rolled up my anxiety with roasted leaves.
What went out with the clouds was hope,
what set in with the daze was satiety.]
Sometimes, when I am stoned, I hear her talking to me through tiny raindrops.
“I love roads. The way they are so smooth and stable, unlike ‘us’. Unlike the turbulence of the landscape. I know about a road that stretches out far ahead into the horizon, writhing in the embrace of a landscape ruled by yellow flowers that grow like rising flames amidst the shape-shifting sand dunes of Sahara,” she says with a pale voice and dreamy eyes.
She always talks like that.
Sometimes, When I’m stoned,
I walk her through the fluid by-lanes of my mind,
into the flea-market of memory,
where its blood soaked walls are painted with existential graffiti.
And bleeding colours and smudged faces come off
along with the damp plaster of past relations,
even as the dingy subways of the sub-conscious come alive
with the shrieky wails of morality,
while shape-shifting psychics
sell bootlegged dreams to street kids looking for candy,
“I like graffiti,” she says lighting a cigarette, with her face glowing in the yellow fire of the matchstick. “Drawn over moist bodies with dry fingers, like running them against fogging window panes.”
Words fading out in the white cloud of careening smoke.
When raindrops run down her body like glistening mercury,
I see no harm in love,
and even though experience lies betrayed
and buried deep down,
its muted screams show signs of life,
convulsing under the over-rated rubble of ambition.
“I like the rain,” she whispers, running her soft cold hands against my face. “I like to be carved out of raindrops and glow in the damp aura of street lamps”.
But that was then, when she used to talk about yellow flowers under the clear desert sun.
Now, I run after fading streaks of her afterglow.
The yellow flowers have died. The graffiti on the walls has been erased and the walk ways of the mind echo with drops of amnesia.
I don’t carve her out of raindrops anymore. It doesn’t rain, anymore.
Sometimes when I’m stoned,
I realize that a ticking clock doesn’t truly represent time,
it only measures it.