my eyes flitted through the red poppy fields of afghanistan, of tigers with violence roaring in it's amber gaze, while my fills with saliva at the images of selection of delicious food, decadent and simple one paraded across the screen.

yet my brain caught nothing. of scientists who play gods in labratories, tinkering with the fundamentals of life, the significance is lost on me as water leaves rocks on riverside as the sun rises on the crack of dawn.

i am seized by the near desperate need to gather and accumulate more facts, the survivor of a sinking ship holding on to a piece of wood to keep afloat.

but oh, the splinters is embedded in my palms, and i feels as if im losing my grip faster than i could claw my nails to the board. my anchor is no more.

my efforts i think, hinged more on a psychological compulsion towards validating my phantom of an existence.

i have regressed, i am afraid and i know this.

razor's edge away from tearing of my matted hair from their weakened roots, i seek to hold together the frayed seams, my body now feels obsolete and lighter than noble gases.

my head is underneath ocean's lips,
it is strangely calm down here
the greenish glow wavers
i hold my breath in
my nose bleeds and
the silence echoes tranquility
stillness in contrast
with turbulence of thunderstorms on the surface
i could barely see
the franticness that oozes
trickles and waged on and on
but i am enveloped 
the threads of white sand
i embroider
and a cocoon is formed
i am serene.

the 5-year old girl's hands are lovingly sculpting
the turrets of the pink-shelled castle
where the prince is waltzing with the smiling princess in his arms

she is humming a ballad she heard her mother sang a couple of nights ago
her belly rumbled after a hearty lunch of peanut butter and jam sandwiches
the taste of strawberry milshake still swirling on her tongue

she hears her father calling out her name
she turns, brushes her hands on her red and gold plaid pinafore

runs straight and jumps into his familiar frame
inhales the heady mix of after shave and his neck
she allows him to carry her off

i wish i could be as eloquent as i was back then when i need to write down my feelings. when the chambers of my heart have overflowed and needed emptying. or something as simple as unravelling the knots and tangles in my brain.

perhaps i have grown to wear the blasé skin and the cavalier dress too well. they fit me like a glove. and like most garments, we feel reluctance of peeling it off us when it is just comfortable the way it is. when the colours have become a habit for the corneas to gaze at although the fact was that, the shades were repulsive at first glance.

we bear with routines because there we find security. through conformity of solid shapes. even the remotest hint at the slightest change would send shock waves of fear darting in our veins. because shadows are not to be trusted, blinds must be shut really properly and we avoid looking beneath our beds. we create monsters in the creaking closet. we imagined the sound of wind brushing the branches as whispers from the other side, the darker, more evil side.

the thing that we don't really realise is that, there is no amount of prepared illumination is going to serve as warranty that there'll be no grey fog rolling by obscuring our path in the future. there is no guarantee, ever in anything not going bad, or perversely everything going on smoothly. everybody's road is crooked, we all have bad turns and unfortunate bends.

then why can't i not just take the plunge?

because the waters below the cliff is murky baby. i do not know the depth or how strong the currents are.

because the truth is, fear of any unknowns is like vines gripping my limbs.

the more i learned, the more i know and compare with things before , the harder i feel the the vise closing in around my throat.

i am immobilised by my own thoughts. my mental reveries made me an invalid.

i cannot move forward. i would not allow myself to take any step unless i have covered all the grounds. the problem is that i think i see little patches ahead and i imagined a vast field of infinite breadth and length that i should and must know before moving a muscle.

we want all things to be certain. we set the alarm clock to wake us up at the same particular hour every day we would like our teas and coffee's preferences remembered by the cafe owner and we love the fact that the bar stool has our name on it.

all nice and good but haven't i sworn myself never to be lured by the kind of life where everything has set out just the way it always has been and will always be?  that the true pleasures are to be found in spontaneity?

a decision must be reached and made. out of these turmoils and mess a crystal of clarity must arise.