I.

Waiting for the Call, 12:29 PM.

I've got a book in me

It chronically comes to me in my sleep

At airports

At public restrooms

In the queue at supermarkets

In the kitchen when I'm doing the dishes

In between conversations I'm bored of.

It writes itself,

Visuals rolling in my head cinematically,

Exposure adjusting on subjects.

Climaxes amplifying the background score.

I don't interrupt the thoughts. No Sir.

Let them unravel into something coherent.

Love stories. Murder.

Thievery on a sunny highway.

Seasons. decades. milleniums. epochs.

All in moments.

From nothing to something to nothing

Characters always in hurry

Running a alot, Sweating a lot

Always late for something.

Everyone. Everywhere.

I see myself too sometimes,

drudging profusely

and writing a lot

A gun pointed at my head

A clock running out

Two suns setting in the south

Pages to be scribbled by the EOD.

The book, stories, characters,

Heroes and anti heros.

get louder-

every morning,

Screeching my insides of my skull and smiling.

I've got a book in me

It chronically comes to me in my sleep

I think it's time. I'll see you again.

Ayushmaan Mishra · 2024-04-04