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Free Fall

The earth is a giant plate . It holds endless grief in its crevices , the rhymes of neophytes who feed and sing , the odes of strides , the thrust of fields and what not . Still it misses a few definite things . One of it's a knife . A literal knife . Which I now drop . 
Look ! The knife goes down . I watch it glide down the forces of nature , slowly . 
Who survives ? The earth or the knife ? The earth has lost something of it every other day which sprouts up like a duality at some other time , in a different slice of space . It survives again . 
And the knife ? The knife was supercilious . Never have I seen the knife even think once before hurting . Skin and apples . Flesh and bones . The knife overpowered the one holding it . Dicing with sublime forms of death , the knife never lost till now . 52nd floor is from where I dropped it . The binoculars give a dramatic watch to the ceremony . A feat . A feast . Smitten by the ferocious windblasts it dips straight , down below . The distance it covers is not mere distance . But is a combination of time too . And it strikes and breaks . The knife strikes the plate . This time the knife breaks and purgatories its torso , of metal . A miniature of Kilauea Caldera , Sandwich Islands is painted . The intensity of the paint is profound . This one is not by Tavernier though . It's by a stupid fall . A satisfaction that deserves a recreation . A better one . 
    If you're the one reading this , just know that the writer lived . 
Lived in the recreation . The stupid fall . 
The world demanded a reclamation and here I am , the one smoking justice to it . 
52nd floor , the railing is wet . It's just the beginning to a perfection . I know how to survive . The art of losing self is worth conquering . I cling to the wet railing and look down . It's satisfaction . The world demanded a reclamation . A few seconds . I breathe in . I remember mamma always telling me to breathe in deep . And breathe out next . I exhale . I liberate . 
47th floor , I clutch time . I gasp in . I run for memories . 
43rd floor , I see . I try to open my eyes . I can't cry . I can't scream . My brain's bleak . My limbs are frail . I try to clutch time again . I buy . I trifle . I buy distance too . This is thrilling . The velocity praises me . The acceleration curses though . 
41st floor , Hans Zimmer's beautiful composition on Time plays . 
A testimony to my senses . An inception . 
37th floor , I missed to tell you that seven squared is forty nine . How can I miss data at this moment ? The wedding illumination was the finest . 
31st floor , Margo loves me . 'Margo we will see the world together' 
29th floor , The rooftop seems drunk . The sunrise seems blood . 
23rd floor , My spine . It's breaking . 
My Margo ! Take care of Marta . She's young . She's beautiful . She's ours . 
19th floor , I can't think anymore . Can you spare me ?
17th floor , I told you I can't think of anything . 
13th floor , The birds . The flowers . The winds . Now it's concise . It's harmony again . 
11th floor , I dabble with eddies . It's general for the dawn to be calm . But this is no ordinary dawn . It's roaring egotism . The reflection on the glazing surface travels and gathers glories . 
7th floor , I now feel for the knife . I am true . I never thought of killing smiles . Fates . I am sorry . 
5th floor , I own this end . 
3rd floor , This beginning . 
2nd floor , A debacle . 
A hollow living spectre . The earth is now complete . Prime .



It was the winter I waited for long to come . As the denizens of this place , birds rarely seen have become a paradisical view from the front balcony . A particular obsession about this season is the Kashmiri shawl that she used to wear . And cafe' latte in the floral Japanese pots that we preferred . She loved cryptography and literature was her second choice . Okay , enough of her already . 

   And I still think I can get rid of the memories . 

Not that I have written less of her or for her but the compositions never could be that glorious as I thought them to be . As the change of skin can't be a mere lure to all the times we had spent together . That Kashmiri shawl she wore is still wrapping me . It's not just her smell nor her words , it's the faithful flowers painted on this shawl that have lost all the colours . Maybe it's the fog and the haze over my eyes that sweep my sights . I wasn't in love with her . What can I say ? I was what I was not before meeting her . I got conscious about my drinking habits and poetic skills . I changed lines like never before . 

    Once it happened that before completing the second stanza of the ballad , I started dancing . Hymns of oddly specific funeral tunes aired throughout the room . And I grew wild . I craved for someone's presence . To save that meshuggener . Not only had I engraved my coffin in the lines but I had ordered one from the carpenter just after I had composed the initial lines . And after days she arrived . She was messy . She was panting . And I was floating . I just skipped my death dance and ran towards her . Yes , I changed lines like never before . 

I wasn't in love with her but something strange had happened . I wasn't in love with her but I longed for her presence . Her dwarf like eyes carried a universe within . Yes , she was classic . Good with numbers and games , codes and ciphers . 

Words were nothing but words to her . 

 Perhaps I could have understood what she meant by "destiny" . The water in the bathtub was bluer than the sky that day . It was the day before Christmas . I had bought lights . Lights that marked the euphoria of this season . It was when I couldn't find the Mont Blanc in its place , I happened to run my fingers over a stained monochrome print . It was a nightmare in phrases . Starving hysterical letters in Baskerville read

 " You're a SEX object . An apathy has grilled me

~ Never yours "  

Okay , enough of her already . 


It was jazz playing in the background. And gravity mourning a fatal attraction.

The winters I wait for long to come and bring me peace.

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