Lost in Thoughts

~A take on depression~ I can't write. No, I can't. It is there where my pen staggers. My pen. My trusting friend. Truest and beloved. He that never failed me. Never failed my heart. Staggers here. He pauses, confused. At the tumult. He, that has translated worlds unheard of, from within the depths of my mind, stammers here. Is it a void that sucks in all the color and clamor from the world outside? My pen, that had advanced onto the paper, stops and looks up questioningly. Or is it a gray bubble that holds you within, sealing you air-tight from the nice world outside. Frail and floating, sluggish and slippery, with nothing to hold on to? No. I don't think so. One can still let the colors blind him. He can still belong and feel snug as a cat on her favorite couch, when outside, yet somehow feel alien. Not any of this fancy void or bubble business. My pen frowns, radiating keen disappointment. Two very strong imageries to be put down on paper. But a comprehens

A clean mattress. A whole night's sleep. A body that is your own. A smile that is true. Seemingly petty? Indeed. But not for those women-those that we avert our gazes from; those women that wake every night when the world sleeps, dabbing hurridely, cheap makeup for one stranger. Or sometimes they say, more than one. In an era where brothels still exist, little girls and women have tales to tell. Not happy ones. Here is one small sketch. Mellow lights. Enter young girl with a candle, humming as she moves. Walks to the center, places candle atop desk. Picks up the mirror and two lipsticks. As she starts applying, she looks doubtfully into the mirror and turns to the audience. Peach or pink. (looks between the lipsticks) What is it that you prefer? Not that I care. But that you do. (Walks forward, leans in conspicuously) Come young man, the candles burn bright. The night beckons with its secrets. Quick! tell me now, Peach or Pink, What is it that you pre

Dearest Mortal, Can I ask you for something? Don’t refuse me. Please. Sometimes I can feel. Sometimes. It is but for a moment. An unanchored shard of memory from somewhere inside. A sharp prick of emotion that punctures in and radiates. A shock of nostalgia sweeps through. An old window, wooden and worn. A shaft of sunshine. Flecks of dust dancing and drowning. The sprawling outdoors with its languid lanes a squint away. I reach for it- an arm through the shaft, the slap of the summer wind and a familiar throb as a surprised skull meets the sturdy panel. I can feel it. Almost. Pebbles, staunch and shiny. Crunching beneath bare toes. Long, lined fingers. Ten in number. Square nails scrubby with dirt. One scab here, one scar there. Sinking and slipping with every step. Hollow clutters as a few slip down, tumbling into anonymity. A slight creak of spine as it stoops to pick one. Supple finger-pads  against queer lines that goes round and round the pebble. A slight frown as the