For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror

In my room there is a profusion of words. Words that have poured out of the books, stacked in the order of confusion. Rows upon rows having marched out picketed themselves in defiance of me. Words unread and uncared for preventing me from knowing their meaning a depth of order in their lateral disorder. And then there are the words, having leaked out of restless dreams, have taken refuge in the crevices. Like roaches hiding from light but nibbling away at a good-night's sleep. Helter-skelter do they run, as breaks the dawn and its a voyeur who is left behind. Some words though have dropped out of conversations. Words not assimilated into the structure of thought or the fluidity of understanding. Orphans they are, spoken to be heard but unheeded and unheard ,hence, contextless have meaning but are identity-less. Oh! these damned words how bitterly do they fight to make their own all the space available, or to create a whole new space of their own, to create a conscious identity, or ...

What have I added to the litter of this city. A scrap paper of an identity or many such scraps, stained with the blood of mutilated self. Red mingling with black. Red smudging out the black of the, words, -straining to describe myself- were in an inchoate form, when that stab of desire slicing through the throbbing dullness spilled the lifeless blood, giving life, to the lifeless blood. Lifeless dreams trickled through the stupor of the sleepless night -a night alive because of living desires and a night dying because of dying dreams- into that culvert and past that dumpster, where,you will find a cache of my dreams and the remnants of my being.

As I stood beneath its boughs, I wondered about its violent expression. Flowers scarlet casting a scarlet shadow. A spot of red amidst the dying green. A dash of colour stolen from the mellowed mornings and the balmy evenings. But the dying leaves fed the thriving summer; a precipitating summer which precipitated death. Creeping low amidst the mourners -a murderer amidst dead leaves and grass- it crept along the stem, slithered along the boughs. Deadly fangs poisoning the life in future and present equally. But the blossoms of that Gulmohar held on. A sight dearer than life itself. Truly, a sight for the sore eyes.