by Goirick Brahmachari
We enter the exitOn a Sunday night at half-past seven, trying to erase timeUnacknowledging, as if, the hills were never thereNo freezing moonless lonesome nights; as if,The bus never returned, and the coffee cups were all empty,And we never lost the road back to whereWe would eventually crash; as if,The sounds weren’t played and the doorbells never were rangNothing was ever there. Nothing is never there.
So, I turned to my routineLike many months agoTo delineate time.
Practising inability, inhaling,Exhaling bitterness and rhymeDo not practice love.Stop breathing, motherfucker.
So like heard of sheep, we return to the routine, again:Wake up; drink your black coffee with the first cigaretteBrush, take a shower, talk to the autowallah if they may please,inculcate their smiles; Reach office; come out with a cup of coffee, smokeHallucinate. Live.Leave.
Continuity is easy. Everything else they say is overrated.Everything you hate slowly becomes a habit.