Opaque.

Some homes do not have a window and if they do, it won't look into the street. And then there are people who like to cling on to other people for everything. The extent is such that they need a shoulder in solitude. They become contingent, and hinge upon certain talk; come weather, color television, Pepsi, plants, a bright room, or in stark contrast, mangoes. For them, a opening overlooking a street becomes everything for when they need out of life, they simply stare outside. For slowly the crackle of cars, shimmering rain, ventilation, a train of shops, thin air, and most importantly, overheard conversation provides what was otherwise lacking - Human harmony.

Taciturn.

She is unhappy. She feels left alone. She locks her hand between the door and the wall to calculate the pain. She stares into the cupboard mirror waiting for her eyes to swell. She slips beneath bed sheets and cries herself to sleep. She scrawls in disconsolate fashion and every paragraph she scribbles has ink botched by a tear drop. Her frame is frail and her hands thin. The clinical look has gone further morose and her view is as cynical as a moon's during solar eclipse. It takes her time to go to sleep at night and her clothes are as wary, weary, and sluggish as she is. In bed, she lies without effort and refuses. She believes intention does not exist and her sole escape is music, as melancholic as she is. She only walks out when the sky is grey for only then can her skin match the weather. She will only neat a dark rum for that is slow vacation from everything woebegone. She is crestfallen and nothing amuses her. Her anemic, ashen lips destroy any hint of a better day. She goes blanche and her insipid fingers and toes move lifelessly on the carpet. She talks of death and a better place afterwards. She talks of what could have been. She knows not what she wants. She believes I love her. I am unhappier.

Letters.

Circa January 2007. An old Australian traveler we met over beer and food in Khajuraho.

In Cold Sweat.

What has passed never ceases to exist. It disturbs, despite my unique ability to let it all go, forget. This lingers on, especially because one is still alone in the midst of a million, vulnerable despite nothing happening. The third worst thirty minutes of a life should be but a joy to stutter home with yet they hardly can encapsulate more than enough. I myself concede defeat when told to paint a picture in words. It never does happen. Diasyrm, his life has passes like that. In mutual agony, he resolves to not behave so. Yet with each passing thought, it holds him, a ruptured chest in need of solace that begs forgiveness, it takes him past what it is. 25 movies since the minute Karen falls to her knees, he has moved to drop, a single passing thought sent from elsewhere in his mind. She has maybe else on her mind and he somehow cannot fathom and if given an option, would rather just avoid. Her willingness to spend time and unwillingness to climb on with him disturb but he does not know why he still moving back and forth. Then.

He moves frail, the tears unsettling those eyes, Leaving her behind, he moves back in cold sweat. It drenches his cord and he pulsates by local shops wishing upon a cigarette. He doesn't want one but he sure does need a flashing drag. He needs enough smoke to submerge at least the given give aways. It is no more about what he could want. He stifles from shop to shop as they ignore to stock his preference, finally ending at one who cannot help but quickly change the note provided. He slips his hands, albeit carefully, through green leaves kept on pale ice. The sweat is becoming colder still and a juvenile request and rejection later, the quickened steps begin to subside. They become mere tunes to the sound of clutter, drowning his skull back and forth. He gets one of those flashing headaches again, each hitting as if the body temperature just pushed up by another degree. He gets dragged, by his own toes to familiar yet unchartered territory. In pliable thoughts, he is becoming a victim of his own ego. The timber to his right stands same while he is imagining it rotating beside, one spaces to zero and he makes that dash to get where he required to, as the north bound vehicle chugs in, mesmerizing everyone into sudden push and all surge ahead to make way for themselves. Their short term goals hold no meaning for him as he makes by hitting every incoming shoulder with his, slowly pained by it all. The mental hit turns physical as he finally steps the last and overcomes a bench, weird in logic, he stammers while asking for a hand. Inside, he engraves his fingers to the railing all the while figuring a place. He gets a seat, and as he leans, the back falls on warm steel, devoid of emotion, and heavy with the now satiated cold sweat. Colorless and deteriorating. Broke and broken, it all begins and ends with the same monotonous steps, repeated since he stepped out today. A shiver rummages through the spine, an unconscious dilemma, teeth clenched to fend others in dismal harmony. Laziness begins to make him weary, he slowly dips below another's neck length, getting trapped in this new house of cards. He could narrate himself a story, the iron is still, the irony frozen into quiet by the chatter which inevitably is talk. He is shallow for believing, behaving the way he did and cannot tell himself enough as to how he does this all the time. If she accused him, he would take it but that is not the point at all. He shall do more for than ever would be told to him. You look around. A casual glance. There is something behind. Maybe something you left, now languishing all by its own. A casual glance. It permeates through the very unpleasant well being of the day. Delicate.

Eyes peer from vivid corners, looking down like there never was, as if i had the choice not to believe they were not but yet i waited to let them shine and cast a spell upon the miseries floating abound. Eons came as time flew by and then I heard the next. Get out, comes a scream and the retort is unusually solemn. Sounds like a plan, I could tell myself only to be further pushed into flashback. This is certainly not depression of the nostalgic kind, that I let go off. It comes and hands down wins. But this time, I am positioned in a new zone, which is blindly pouring over. A fast station and crowd rushes in like blood sucked into a nozzle. Darkness turns further grey, struggling to find voice, asking where I am. I follow indication and he cannot become me. He is in his own world, dancing to almost nothingness. He cannot abase no more, abated by the way his words are graved. He would not discredit another writing for simple pleasure. He does not want to be himself anymore, he feels he is hated, and trying to make the least of it. Gratification in his own world, an assumption he made with the first step, quivering like a crashing wave, subsiding in generic decline. He does not know what joy is, the last time he let himself be alright is faded like the jeans he never wears. His memory will slowly become out of touch with even this, paddling through sheets of written down material. Heaviness trickles down, responsibly, taking its time as it us uncalled. Every time he does try, with all honesty, to read to himself, he stops short of that very instance.

That extra limb which stood deprived and feeling unimportant slowly cachinates into modern sleep, paralysis into coma, and waking up only to get back to sleep again. He will have to keep thinking out his toes so they do not get abused. He becomes less noticed as he settles, unsettled, into a resolute but sober night, people leaving and getting on, tragic and insignificant. He plays, as she says, with words which are nothing but cumulatively described sentences purposelessly arranged in various formats. He has heavy doubt, laid upon himself, inculcated into his brains as if it were enough to confound him for a couple of minutes. It seems like all these people are spoon fed on the heroic exploits of Hercules even to this day. I don't think there is society that can be properly and fully justified, somewhere round the corner some glitches are visible. Our discord is evident, I'd rather it ended and we played it better. Happier. There is a disjoint between who I am, who I am by the time I reach, and by the time I do leave your company. And it is because there is something wrong with me. I need not be. I'll register only the better moments.

I'm still moving away, faltering step by step. Grim eyes chastening the already been, sans the sentences that create a scene. I can sense more contrasting movement, shadows which delve upon their own selfs, as they compare themselves to the others and the being from which hey permeate, glancing strangely to release their ticket home. Why does he feel sorrow, he knows not. His face is synonymous of the sweat which is now painting a ridiculous diagram on his back. The diagram is clean, but the touch is chilling, it has to be meandered on its own, he wishes he never did ask for more. Lifelessness. For once, there's the disturbing presence of a primed fist, and secondly, it usually sounds a trifle inappropriate. That said, I'd maybe still give the end of this a hard time. Ideally just have a proper discussion instead of breaking out my frustration at my pathetic levels of comprehension. Reality is stress and I am not apprehensive at being in touch with it. More thoughts play prejudiced as I let parallels discuss the fortunate. Incapable of putting extremities to work or word, I hardly glimpse to correct an error, regarding every tinge of warmth as just another errand. Consumption at mention, this is detention of the worst sort. You remember the quote about how people respond only to incentives, the rest is just commentary? I will reside ever the same and still plain in appearance, an unusual grin over a grim face. Forlorn and despising activity, a smile takes effort. All I can take.

My eyes are now open and thoughts disclosed. The train is shivering, with happiness in paucity. I rise, watching people parade as the platform passes, and I veer and go stand by the open exit. The wind strikes, blows my clothing, me aback, and helps evaporate the cold sweat, the residue ever unkempt.

I'd die the day I found someone as plain as black coffee.