Ennui

Eight days had made a difference.
Eight black days.

Time devolved into time.

I hated mornings.
It crept through the hollow spaces of my dead windows,
Sunny. Bubbling with brightness.
I hated this ...light...
It threw into stark relief things I wanted to keep unseen.

I made tea for myself today.
Too sweet.
I drank it anyway.
There was nothing else to do.

Then I thought-
Let me think.

And I did.

About faraway seas and storms and ocean-liners.
About trains and planes and handsome foreigners.
About how this will make no sense to them at all.
About how I should stop anticipating a call.

By then it was time to feed the dog.
My bones clicked together like knitting needles as I made my way to the greasy kitchen.
I sipped the air, rather than breathed it.

'This is tiresome', I spoke out loud to the masala-stained light-pink tiles.
'Tiresome to write.''
'Tiresome to think.'
'Tiresome to love.'

I waited for the birth of a beautiful, silver, tinkling phrase
To come to me with hesitant, wobbly baby steps.
After all, my brain had been impregnated with pain, right?
This blackness should bring forth light...

No.

I made tea for myself again, today.
Too sweet.
I drank it anyway.
There was nothing else to do.

                  ***