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What do I do at home these days, I don't remember. I wake up and have forgotten the previous day. With sudden sublime of distant thoughts. It feels indefinite when I had last put on my shoes. Nothing has really changed at home yet, but March is not the month for holidays, the body remembers it, it can't rest. I keep relapsing to the thought of people who live alone, how traumatizing. I never knew what it would be like to stop daydreaming, I know now.

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Whenever an epidemic ends people forget about what is need to be done. The crisis is erased from their memory. The mass don't even ask of their administration to take precautions for future. And they roar of the glorious days that is to come. Humans are by nature doomed.

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the evening light
sublime my inner self
to commune those
scattered thoughts
(thought in half a
mind) into one

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It was Wednesday, my table broke
down after limping on its lanky left-leg
for 10 weeks or so. Now, today,
Day 13 of self quarantine and my two
weeks old polish has started to chip off
my fingernails–
I painted them in six alternate layers of
red and clear nail polish on the first day
of quarantine, hoping against hope to
make it last through this.

The blaze of sun now dries the soil
quicker, the birds wake earlier,
afternoon heat waves to engulf the
outer rooms upstairs.
Days have been like: self hydrate and
water the plants, sweep the rooms,
clean the shelves, do the dishes, read
the unread, sort newspapers- old and
new, eat, sleep, repeat.

(fading in/fading out)

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Pretty men in polished shoes,
Pacing down the sidewalk
With hands deep in pockets.
Pretty women in varying heels,
Trotting down the crossroads
With eyes gleaming sideways.
Pretty children with shoelaces
Undone, skipping potholes
With overrunning laughter.
Pretty strangers in frolic errands,
Passing by in a rhythmic unison–
It's the midsummer eve.

~ notes from window-shopping

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my books are
used for teaching
blackout poetry

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The last time I saw you,
you were colder than my palms,
sweating of fear and guilts.
You have had grown layers,
while I was trapped under the folds,
of emotions, expectations and promises.
Your breaths were heavy,
heaving on mine, unabling me to breath.
The days you left me choking,
I skipped tiffin for a cup of tea at home,
and dinner to sleep a little more.
You grew fatter sucking my flesh.
Maybe that's how you died,
Of obsessive obesity.

To depression,
From boredom.

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Our world is limited
by our knowledge.

Our wisdom is limited
by our experience.

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