Six Sentences

The body is giving way rapidly. That kilo does not disappear with a couple of missed meals and stress. Half an hour on the treadmill is a marathon. Sleeveless needs careful consideration. The grey is definitely more than the black. Death is the next stop.

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Remember the feeling. The very first thought as you wake up. And the last one before your mind shuts down for the day. The reason you drag yourself to places you don’t want to go. The near-constant presence in your head through the day. Obsession.

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Do you care for a short walk on the wild side? A wee touch of bohemia? Some unexpected spontaneity? A little less restraint? A bit more cleavage or leg perhaps? Or a line of cocaine?

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You feel yourself getting harder. More impatient with random foolishness. Less inclined to give anyone the benefit of doubt. Uncomfortable with anything out of sync. Every moment needs to be counted and there is no time to sit and waffle. Even if the time deserves a little waffling.

Pieces of me

A bohemia of unabashed colour, on walls, on clothes

The decadence of exotic silk, eastern, striking, brash.

The hoping-to-stop-time red shoes, forbidden red

The height of the heel, the inappropriateness of it.

Countless trysts with discipline, will power and Nike

Cut short by sloth, despair, distraction.

Love for a city, for independence, for growing up,

A big bad city for making money, for living, for loving.

A million words, good, tolerable, plain bad

Can't-stay-away-from words, not-enough-time-for words.

Kitchen creations, wholesome, soothing, happy-tiring,

Pleasurable from some deep primal inside.

The living in hope, building word castles in the air

The fear, dismissal, dissatisfaction all a part of it.

Tradition and its visible cloak

The flowers and the gold, the rituals and the roots.

All a life unaccounted, formless, everyday ordinary

Floating by in some mysterious significance, I hope.

Randomness

How do I waste time? Let me count the ways. Laughing and crying over Four Weddings and a Funeral for the 21^sttime; adding my 220^th friend on Facebook; reading pretty pointless poetry to get maudlin; writing a blog no one ever reads; trawling the net mindlessly while putting off writing that important email; dreaming of heroic deeds when those clothes are crying to be put out to dry. I waste time with all the insouciance of youth, a not-so-young woman anymore.

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The ironing man needs to be paid and so does the electricity bill. What’s for dinner tonight needs to be decided now – the cook is clamouring for a decision. A long and busy day awaits. An important day, filled with important decisions and important clients and important meetings. What does it matter that America has a black president, that Kashmir has gone to the polls peacefully, that newer war zones are being created in our backyards, that Nobel Prizes are being won. The minutiae of her life absorb her; a minor insignificant foot soldier in the shaping of momentous history.

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It was a kind of flirting, she knew. Harmlessly provocative sms-es that make her feel more intensely alive, more than just a platonic friend. Suggestiveness over long distance seems less dangerous – and as suggestive, if that makes any sense. He sees her smiling into her mobile phone and thinks she has a great smile. He tries to catch her eye but she is too absorbed in her messaging. And so he gives up and turns to find a newspaper.