Grey

A lot of time passed since I last wrote. This draft page looks different. So do my thoughts. I have a lot on my mind, but don’t know what to write. What should look good on my blog, that has been so much curated to appeal my readers. If I wrote freely, maybe someone would be taken aback. But it’s just a thought, to write freely. Somehow I feel very detached and attached to the world at the same time. In many poems I’ve mentioned raw, I realized many times raw is also equated to wild. Do people label unfamiliar sensations as wild? What do they call unfamiliar aspects of their own? When they comb their hair in the mirror and feel unfamiliar with the scalp they are brushing the comb across, do they feel serene or a slight discomfort? Do they disguise or confuse it for the tugging of hair?

People assign sensations to songs. Sensations with people. People to songs. And sit for hours with it, enjoying the flow of time. Then watch videos on productivity, to correct their wired mistakes. You can just forget. Or forcibly reassign. While you munch your food with your laptop in front of you, do you feel empty? Despite having a plate full and a whole hour of entertainment to satisfy the null? Your quotidian routine has become a cycle of devouring not because you need to, but because you are too afraid to stop and feel the null. Nobody chose null and dared to find what null really is. What if it is peaceful?

These days I see too much grey. In people, in between my hair, in the angry sky, and in the ashes of my burning thoughts. I happen to like grey because it does not care about its pride, like black and white and does not need to stand true to its color. It’s comfortable being itself.

Sometimes when I am washing dishes in the afternoon, I look up at the window. I see white clouds scattered through a bright blue sky, swaying branches and birds adjusting themselves on it. In some odd ways that space makes me feel nice. Not for very long, just a few moments.

Sukanya.

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