by Tapasya Pandita
Blurred faces. Dean Winchester in his '67 Impala entering my ward. Rancid breaths, laboured breaths. I slip into unconsciousness and back. Cold sways beneath my feet registering succinctly the movement of blood and fluids. Fluids, acids; acids gnawing at my walls. Hot lava ascends my canal, a big burst of burp ,and, my throat is soaked in bitterness. Odious bitterness. Reapers. Are they?
A balmy winter morning in my country. The high hills line the horizon like metamorphosed clouds. I sit and write, like a prince of Serendip. Success is sweet nectar. Only later does it merge with the bile in your soul. I write. The fables of magical trees and lives of the peasants. From happiness to misery, misery to luck ; the crude Aristotle. There is no white and green hospital ward in my sight, no rancid breath, no unconsciousness, no blured visages.
That night I slept with another story in my life. Another bunch of serene white smeared with holy black in my diary. Satisfaction leaped out from my soul and hugged my world. A world that was changing . Was one of my stories going to be my own? Winchester boys ; would they fight the reapers on my head? No. The scythe was set in concordance with the result of a proper motion. The wine soused me and the smoke inhaled me.
A balmy winter morning in my country. The high hills line the horizon like metamorphosed clouds. I sit and write, like a prince of Serendip. Success is sweet nectar. Only later does it merge with the bile in your soul. I write. The fables of magical trees and lives of the peasants. From happiness to misery, misery to luck ; the crude Aristotle. There is no white and green hospital ward in my sight, no rancid breath, no unconsciousness, no blured visages.
That night I slept with another story in my life. Another bunch of serene white smeared with holy black in my diary. Satisfaction leaped out from my soul and hugged my world. A world that was changing . Was one of my stories going to be my own? Winchester boys ; would they fight the reapers on my head? No. The scythe was set in concordance with the result of a proper motion. The wine soused me and the smoke inhaled me.