I wonder

I pick up my blanket.
I fold it in the neatest layers.
A corner peeks out.
I cuss at it.
The alleged reason for of all my frustration.
I fold it again.
Elegantly like I am being watched.
With soft hands as though
draping an infant.
I pour some tea from disheveled
kettle with lilies painted on it
similar to what my mother used to paint
but with a better sense
and an artistic thing, you know.
The one where you give an apple to them
and they charm you into thinking you entered orchards.
Then appreciating their own work with a raised eyebrow.

An artist who knows his/her
imagination knows no bounds
and isn’t held back by anything
is oh, so tempting.

I remove stain from
the shoes that ever goes out.
And yell at bees claiming
my fruits as their sweet jelly occasions.
Why do I do it?
I ask my shallow self.
She says I fall in love too easily
and fall out way sooner.
The souls roaming around
possessed by the clock-spirits
wear a band with a dial
and say they don’t have time to
romance with life like I do.

The first time I held my
vintage kettle from a flea shop
I was reminded of my cheap taste.
The time I conversed with a bee
hovering around, mystifying me
I was abhorred for living too much
in my dreamland.

So currently, I am living
in the time where I have fallen out of everything.
Like everyone else.
But I don’t give in easily too,
like everyone else.

I cook.
I clean.
Make myself some beguiling pasta
Slip into my revolting shorts
and switch on a motion picture
with trumpets and violins as my guards
against reality no one knows how to cope with.
I slowly drift into the intellectual arms of
great writers and artists.
Kissing away the manly lines
dancing through picturesque alleys
and falling in love with the existence
of mine, of theirs.

I knew what had happened to me.
I don’t do well without love.


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