Soumya Scribbles...

I dream colours. They come and create collage while I sleep. There is a nausea in not seeing black. You won't miss it until it is not there. It's almost as people who stand there in our lives, as shadows; And we forget them at nights. The mosaic in my floor teaches me the philosophy of life. In all this shine, I see my opaque face and feet, together in one square. I keep coloured scraps, glitter pens and emotional hues. On a rainy afternoon, when sadness is a guest To old bricks' house, I will paint on the roof. Mix oil pastel to rain waters then. It smells a lot like life. SoUmY@

There will be rings, and more. Perfectly formed, puffed with meticulous crime, they will burn out eventually. There will be the filters, blackened, hesitatingly finding newly made relatives inside the ashtray. And they will be washed off with detergents someday. Smokers won't care. They never did. There will be newer brands, colored filters, mild nicotine and taller specimens. They will walk away. No you and me in this piece. No 'I's, no 'WE's. Togetherness is something that pulls the strings in wrong places, or in wronged places. The times are never right. The most hated and used member at home is the clock in the living room. It reminds the four walls of screws that pierced through and are feeble now. It reminds others of the time they are always short of. It remembers that his engine is weak now and needs replacing. And starts getting slow, slowly. There will be old flowers. Sometimes adjectives sound strange. Never associate flowers with age. They die of shyness...