:: The Hours ::

Days are now like wanton sand, slipping by. It's fluid and flaccid, slightly obtuse at times, and mostly roused by routine. At the end of each time marker―a day, a week, a pinch in the years of youth, so to speak―I hear nothing except the roar of the hours. It's not the same narcissistic emptiness that had plagued me during my laborious teenage years; it's a quiet blank, where the maturity of knowledge cannot quite cancel out the childish want of want.

My weekend disappeared, and I wonder if I can still call it mine. Time has seemingly become a commodity―one that doesn't care for ownership, and doesn't answer to management. When my world blurred into focus on Friday and I knew that my entire weekend has been cemented by social calls, I wished suddenly for the freedom to fade. It was a mean and petty thought and I was immediately ashamed: there was no reason not to do that bottle of wine. There was no reason not to be excited about Sid and Meeta's visit. There was no reason not to want the infectious inclusion into the social circles that have spun their loving cycles around my life.

There was no reason, expect perhaps my inner nirvana didn't want the noise of social platitudes. I wanted only the company of intimate friends and forgotten luxuries―five more fucking minutes in bed please―I wanted only the love of a good book and the scent of strong coffee―I wanted only the virgin void of silence―saved for cries from the rain-ravaged sky―is that―are those―good enough a reason?

***

My old Marlboro Man―I miss you. You gave me an invincible spark of confidence, and your laughter was a phantom force in mine. Fly safe, for you took your wings with you.