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Its 3:46 am to be precise and the whole world has reached the deep dark parts of the Republic of Sleep . They are everywhere, on the street, in the park, in their 12 room mansion, in all possible combinations-- men with men, women with women, men with women, Michael Jackson with children. Of all types-- hungry, fully fed, dying, recently married, divorced, childless, white, black, yellow, and brown. For even one second they didn’t realize that sleep and its spouse dream are the non discriminatory visitors, will just come without hesitation and those new Ralph Lauren bed sheets will not attract them any more then a bed a leaves. Oh why can’t we mere mortals understand the nitty gritty facts of life?
Till the little ones, weary,
No more can be merry:
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end
I can see them all, in their pajamas and floral nighties with some ghastly teddy bears printed in the centre, snoring their way whilst riding on the wild white horses after completing the task of fornication….. I can very well hear all the moaning and all the beastly cries which advent of orgasm (real or faked) may have accompanied the joy of ephemeral pleasures!!
Soon they all will be getting their morning erections, bad breath and those eagles in the eyes, hair disarrayed. A few cups of coffee later the vicious human mind will wake up and a new façade will be put up for us audience. Faces will be shaved off the innocence of the sleep, make up will be plastered to hide the vulnerability of resting, and bodies will be scrubbed to scrap away the layers of innocence of soporific evening. Very soon, we all will be getting names, opinions, views. The republic of sleep will soon be transformed in to chaotic and lewd laboratory of Darwin ’s “Survival of the Fittest” experiment.
And here I am being a time stradler, a perfectly innocuous audience wondering what role I may have to adapt this morning?
The whole house is under the siege of musical schizophrenia….. The bedroom has Disco (have you ever tried listening to Car Wash at 3:00 am, if not its worth a try), the toilet has been taken over by Philip Glass and kitchen got the share of Violin by Joshua Bell. And among this frenzy here I am sitting in the middle of my bed room on the floor, surrounded by a tray of tea and some stale biscuits, dressed in a shirt which is 5 sizes larger to me, makes me look more like a Norwegian dentist wearing a cloak with printed blocks, large enough for kids to play hopscotch in!! Aren’t shapeless clothes attractive in their own spooky kind of way? Hmmm The Ashtray is over flowing with the “butts of the fags”.
Here I am surrounded by my 4 fountain pens and loads of books. I just completed reading a biography of Dora Carrington. For those who are ignorant about this remarkable personality please Google her and in your excitement to read and know more about her, please don’t book the next flight to go to DC, to read all works of her from the horse’s mouth, Oh Sorry, I meant the Library of Congress. You won’t find anything; the library there is a bit puritan in its views…..
I feel so sad, that such a good book has come to an end and feel rather angry that again I read something related to Bloomsbury, Cambridge , V Woolf, and E M Forster. I need to break the mould. I feel trapped in this web right now, no one has heard of what I read right now and I feel like an enlightened Buddha. Why Can’t I come in terms of reading Grisham, King and their likes? I have never even tried. Just the thought of reading something like that sends shivers down my spine. Fear that I may not be able to comprehend what they are trying to say.
Sometimes I wonder, what if I would have never read anything in my life. It would have been a refreshing change. It’s a pity that I am addicted to reading now. I have a stack of half read books staring at me right now, waiting to be digested, absorbed, assimilated and cherished and here I am being a rogue, breaking the queue and reading the biography of Dora Carrington. How very squalid. Not to mention that I have to work tomm and teach too and do my laundry and heat the contents of the fridge. Oh what a life.
You know at this god forsaken hour I am being reminiscent of this carpet my mother used to have in the drawing room, off white with some huge floral prints. It always used to crumple upon when I used to tread on it. I still hear my mom telling me that its hand made of pure silk and hence it’s so soft. I wonder what’s the logic behind having a silk carpet underneath the feet.
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