A poet is a poet only when he is writing a poem. I relay information to my senses and it captivates you all. My words are limited to places. A meaningless thought is still there roaming between the cortex and the stem but bytes don't affect the course of life, do they? A day could get gloomy if you keep your eyes moored on the tip of a leaf until when transpiration sucks out the green from it. But again you slouch like a slob and write about it infront of people you don't know. Things look under control when you aren't alone, but when you sit in a balcony filled with green you can't help but think of rain. Rain isn't a mystery under Science's lens, it spews out acid when it feels violated. Infact I am like a garbage box too, if you keep me full of shit, I stink. When the sky appears orange during sunset the heart is filled with a feeling of longing for something. That something is what people search, if they don't find it within themselves they look for others who have it. They curl themselves on the sofa and make imagination their muse. They paint it, they write about it. The girl on the sidelines of a dilapidated city surely looked pretty, she wore an orange maxi and her lips wore a fluttering anxiety. A photographer clicked her photos and vogue signed a contract. The essence of an incoming Diwali is seeping into the hearts of believers, we left a festival behind and Durga Ma crossed Ganga on a boat, supposedly. It poured down heavily on Vijayadashami, Ma paddled through the junks of the river, thinking about all that there is in the world. I smile a lot nowadays, and it makes me realise the importance of lips. When you kiss someone you exchange saliva, you exchange a desire, you exchange a tune of being in sync. It's a moment when your dwindling thoughts align.
Just this for today, too much for writing, too much of sitting at a place and imagining.