The Birth and Death of a Day

Posted in Thoughts by Priya Ramachandran.

The Birth and Death of a Day

Morning sounds. The clinking of cups. Of caffeine solemnly consumed. The busy noises of important Things to Do. Of the splash of the hurried shower. Of the happy dog on his walk. The neighbour on his run. Of alarms snoozed. Some killed. Violently. Milks forced down tiny throats. An okbye mummy. Chirps of birds that never really slept. Enveloped in the embracing warmth of that soft quilt, the attempts to drown them all.

Afternoon shiftlessness. A lull. Slow boats to somewhere. Languor strikes. Lovely memories of Sunday meals so heavy. And tummy pains after. Magazines leisurely pored through. Or boring reruns endured. Absolute stillness. Oranges peeled. Dreams flirt with heavy eyelids. A sunbeam sliced by the rotating fan blades. Strange shadows on the skin. Satisfying siestas. Or just a longing. When counting hours in a cold cubicle.

Evening emptiness. A sense of sorrow. Of a going away. Light, purpose and meaning scuttle away from sight. Not before a brilliant, beautiful orange flare reflects on the rearview mirror. Are those acrobats or birds? Do I hear musicians or crickets? Golden turns into pink. Pink into a violent. A gloomy blue. A mysterious deep indigo. A puddle of red splat on skin that was once a mosquito. A lamp lit. A sin cleansed? The smell of ginger bubbling in a teapot. The buttery aftertaste of a cookie on the top of my palate. A cycle bell in the distance. The blue-white glow of the computer screen makes eerie shadows on my face.

Night secrets. Mysteriously whispered through the twinkling of the stars. The moon rises higher. Losing its yellow skin. A night out. Of laughter with friends. A lively dinner table. Or smoke-filled, sweaty dance floors. Where strangers turn friends. Mothers turn omnipresent. Was she at the stove or the TV? Of a sneaky breeze blowing through the careless curtain. But the warmth of hot dinners. Sometimes there are fervent prayers. Silent tears on wet pillows. Of escaping into words. The smell of pages tickling your nose. Or happier games. Filled with unknown longing. Bodies melting into the darkness. Melting away inhibitions. Melting into a giant sense of infinite. Of slumber sweet. Dreams deep. Like death.

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