Finger tips

A parched throat is a sign of no words to fill the commentary of life. A full day gone by and I feel drained and emptied out from the inside. Like a lentil storage box, that once emptied, must go in the wash before it can be refilled. Let me detox myself, give me a thorough rinse all over, scrub myself clean and then lay in some sun and dry myself out, leaving back no sign or smell of past contents. Let me start afresh, all new with unknown stuffings and untried colours. I look at my reflection and present to myself a new me with a new label. Can it be so easy?

Every time when I feel the passage of time, like the slipping away of the sand from my palms, from between my finger tips, I panic at the futility and emptiness of it. Each moment passed, must be chewed dry of the memories and in return, must be flown away, burgeoning with emotions…on the verge of bursting, all wet and full. I want to love and live in each passing frame of time….so, I rush in, with my empty container to fill it all up to the brim…but what do I fill it back with in return? Hollow togetherness, meaningless echoes banging against dark walls, silent conversations with oneself or a thoroughly lived-in loneliness? Which of these would passing time opt for? Somehow, my gut says the deal will fall through. So I pause and turn back with my dangling empty container balanced on my finger tips and stick back the old peeled off label onto myself, slip back in my old clothes and become back the familiar me.