Dreams of frail and fragile women, wielding Ingrams and katanas, wake me up at 3 am. The west-end window has grown out of its frame this monsoon. The periodic creaking was a sign of a breeze blowing outside, rocking the pane to and fro. Distant sounds of heavy vehicles rushing across the main road, tunnel rats scampering across the back alley and the humming sound of a low speed fan kept me wide awake. Counting sheep didn't stand a chance.
No coffee, a glass of pineapple juice would have to do. I sit down on the sofa, TV on mute, watching an episode of Friends I have watched a thousand times before. Moist winds bring the smell of earth to me, for some reason my hands are clenched, feet tensed. The new practice pad next door, looked dark, sounded Floyd and smoked grass. I could tell, it's my superpower.
Floating across time and place the enormity of the situation grasped me aware. A shared auto ride, a game of cards on the way back from office, a quick snack at the food stalls, forgetting birthdays or messing the dates altogether, failing to clear a level in a computer game, waiting for overseas calls, late night movies, four parties per salary, workaholic colleagues, dumb fuck Amenhotep et al. They define me, who I am, these and many more, too many to remember, to many to please. I slouched some more and changed the channel.
When very sleepy, red patches of blood clot venules appear on the corner of the eyes. The green skies outside rudely direct me back to the bed. Orange streets metamorphose into labyrinths of hell. White dreams entice. We don't flinch an inch. The set is ready to try and fall asleep. The show must go on.
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