I am listening to the sounds of silence, as crumpled I lay in the dark confines. It has a sense of deja vu, this feeling, you know. I have heard them before and every time I say the same words. It was kind of strange, the air that I walked through today. I like this high, a temporary sense of absolute disconnect with everything. The sky no longer feels any different, not that I noticed much of it back then... but back then, I was used to noticing it, off and on.
I see myself walking through stone roads with amber lamps on either side and a violinist playing, gently. And then an accordion, and a beautiful face, with eyes that haunt you with an encumbering presence, with those lips and a voice as sweet as a nightingale's.
I just live fantasies, for I know not if they'd ever be real. At least there is no heartbreak, there is no pain. I prefer it this way.
I miss Khajuraho and its lake. I miss the forts, the railtracks, and the cheap beers. That is some kind of life which never returns no matter how hard you try. That is some life that exists and just, exists.
And then I see something that is unseen. That there is a tomorrow and if it is not that beautiful as today, then there is a chance it might be.