smoke against a sun by Anandi Mishra


Art: Martinus Rørbye

it feels momentous—this time in life there's a lot of emptiness, a jarring scab at trying to fill it with more emptiness there's eyewashes, there's loving discourses, there's a hateful terrain—like a bulging lava, gone cold just in time there's even a recognition of tumult, of doom—impending and recurring and omnipresent there's a callow urge to not work and to sit back and sleep it all of there's a lack of sleep as well there's an absent hunger and an effervescent thirst there's a fresh quake sitting right below the gut the grounds are unsteady, the air is rancid and heavily trapped there's an urge to root the feet in the cemented floor there's a skin beneath to coax, pull at one thing is completely sure, though i have seldom felt this secure about all the insecurities there's coercion, and the usual paraphernalia tight-lipped, one has to breathe through it won't just pass then there's a skeletal framework of support too, a book here, a person there a casual flick of ash on the rim of a stolen ashtray minutes at work where laughter recedes from the fringes and takes over the frontlines there's minimal interference, a supple slab of butter to croon at at times there's a book, then there's another one to find yourself in there's a safety net to fall back to—the usual state of not caring there are people who remind me of me and odd comfort derived from their presence and casual absence there were things that were ignored and other more platonic things that took the forefront now the foreground is nothing but the ignominious memorabilia of what had been ignored for so long the disparaged importance of things ignored for far too long has a way of catching up the recent importance of all things life undergo a sour change the salt of the ruins of what were once dreams hits your skin charred remains of the day collect themselves in your lap—like unwanted doggos looking for love and attention i squeeze the ballyhoo i make merry and dance in the skirting helms of the ruckus and i think of the foreboding that has now become a sweet cheer a lovely squiggle dances on its toes and it occurs to me on this sun-stung morning isn't every turn in life momentous?

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