I’ve been staring at the canvas with the steak of red and brown for the last fifteen minutes. The limelight wraps it in an air of importance I’m unable to give it. It’s the maze that traps me at lunch and, again at midnight when I’ve fluffed the pillow thrice, or anytime between, before or after.
My brown locks
With tiny fists.
“It’s just playful banter.”
To my dearest,
How are you?
Well, I hope?
Time is a funny thing, isn’t it? A language of its own; an emotion without boundaries. Somehow, they’re not just a part of you but, they make us too. And yet, we can’t have time ever… Have you ever wanted to catch time and hold on to it for just a bit more time? Like catching a butterfly on a summer afternoon?
Alas. Time is something that’s always there yet never ours.
Say, remember that impromptu drive to the mountains? Remember how the twilight wrapped us in an infinity as the sun set?
“Life always gives us moments. One, two, three… infinite, really. Life’s a box of moments. Life’s a box of infinities.”