Butterflies and Hurricanes

This is the second guest post on my blog, written by one of my most favourite people in the world. She knows when I’m upset even before I know it, she understands my silence better than I do, and she inspires me to come out of my momentary lapses and find myself every single day.

Question. Questions. Answer. Question. The Glow Worm sprints within her illusion-ed crawl. Questions pickle her eyebrows into a squint, the answers to which she probably never wants to find. Elusion- her North Star, she courses through the pages of her day as minutes turn into hours and seconds into evaporation. And then starts another day.

Heady from the mix of night and light baked into a perfect sigh, she opens her eyes in the morning. . .

And she sighs. Like an earthquake that choked. Like the curtain that longs for the wind for a leaping push that never came; she soaked it in, this ordinarily immediate world, and she sighed. She inhaled the world through her hungry eyes and let the anesthesia seep in. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi- expectation wriggled like a last goodbye at the edges of her throat. Her chest waited for another heave and coughed in its absence. It worked. Four Mississippi. Five Mississippi. Hope, novocained into her bloodstream in a slow explosion. Six Mississippi. Seven Mississippi. Doubt flared up in a sneeze- sugar rush? Inspiration? Unreal? Eight Mississippi. Nine Mississippi. Ten Mi. . .  Too late. And then she sighed again.

Dry like a cotton mouthed dream, her feet tap to an invisible song, ‘restless’ is the word repeated like a turking junkie, in a rhyme. The weight of the world around her, hovers over the tip of her nose and she twists her mouth in decision.

That’s it.

More. There is more. And the passionless will never see it. Wiggle. Wiggle. Wiggle. Illuminate.

The hour strikes its completion and the elevator stands open armed in a mock, prepared for “3”.

This glass jar is too tall.

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Thank you for existing, Neha. I love you.