Overcast stories

Tonight, as I look through the meshed veil giving a g-u-a-r-d-e-d peekaboo of the night sky- it looks unusual. It looks restricted, it looks grey, and above all it looks… it looks sad. The sky that gives me my daily spoonful of liberation, today does not even look free- it looks chained, dreary, and lost.

Slowly, as I find myself transfixed by its disturbed, murky depths, I almost feel its dense, oily blues dripping and seeping down- anchoring itself on the hazy, lost moonbeam onto the terrace opposite my desolate window, and then filter in right inside my room through the bars on my window The greasy, turpentine blues from the sky now grow a 100 sticky, inky, slimy limbs that crawl their way onto my body, clutching in desperation, clawing at me- searching for light.

Few drops of the dirty, chaotic indigo the sky so helplessly lent out to me, enter my eyes, where I find a sudden sharp pang, a pricking, followed by a gush of servile, sycophantic warmth that ironically flows down rather haltingly, onto my eager, parched tongue. I was right about the slavish sky, tonight the sky does not even taste of freedom. Instead it feels like glass shards inside my chest and smells and tastes like burnt asphalt and summer razed lawns and everything that is the anathema of freedom.

Lying catatonic, sprawled across the mosaic floor- some mason’s cemented wistfulness for a starry sky, I allow my existence beating its African drumbeats into my heaving chest to beat in some life into the morose vine-like veins that seem to be connecting the sky to me tonight. For all those nights that the sky has revived me, all those nights that it has sung to me, all those nights that it has tucked me in with its cloudy blankets, all those nights when it has cried lending a voice to the muted frenzy inside my head, and all those nights that it has comforted me with its whistling windy lullabies that smelt of faraway desert dunes and dying, sandy seas- I repay its debt just a little tonight. So what, if the essence of my being is blood, liquid iron that reeks of rust? Tonight, I breathe in the vapours heavy with my earthenness, I glow, my terrestrial embers stretch out of their slumber, forge magic within their terracota hearth, and slowly blow a whole storm of stardust in a kiss that grows and engulfs the sky.

The storm grows. Raves. Roars. Destroys. Demolishes the chains. The blues are fading.

I cannot speak for eternity, heck- I cannot even vouch for this whole mortal lifetime. But, tonight I have ensured, that across a few plastic desecrated oceans and barbed wire-ridden continents, when night falls outside your window- you will find a starry, unblemished sky. One which will taste of freedom. One which will smell of the August petrichor I carry in my heartbeats. And one which will lean down and feel on your lips a little bit like mine.FB_IMG_1552101386075