Digging for Meaning

dreams and hopes. heavy shapeless things. high on life, we smoke up reality and puff out dreams. they are round and edgeless, because we want them to be likewise. how free and light it felt while smoking it all up. how wonderful and colorful and full of love. and then while we were dreaming, bloody scheming silent slimy serpent of time slithered past us without us ever letting know. and all remained is the slime of memories, that touch of the serpent. just the nagging alive feeling of some dead moment of past and from time to time, the cloud of dreams clear up and we are left staring at the brutal blandness of reality and we are left wondering, 'where the fuck was I all this while?' and 'what the fuck am I doing now?' and 'why the *your favourite expletive* have i not tried flying?' all this while, afraid and dreaming letting the dreams add to itself weight of rust until it gets too heavy to fly. giving up on the fact that reality and dreams...

Mumbai. city of dreams. city of refugees. the camp city of private soldiers, who paste dreams made by private soldiers who came before them on their foreheads, and forge ahead. they maime, rape, throw at the city, extract returns in hope of enriching their real home; never knowing that mumbai won't let you leave you this soon having used her. they had removed their humanity like old clothes on the border of the city. they enter naked into the jungle. grimy serpents run on her back incessantly. little pesky soldiers pull up their sleeves, ball up the fists and fight to get inside the serpent. the door, that is always open seems like evanescent port to untold riches, to them. the ever open door, indeed is a port. a port through which the human transforms into a wild hog who just got untethered. once inside, they again transform into guilt ridden, gaze avoiding crabs. walking sideways. its only after getting out of the serpents, do they inhale some air, not fresh, but air nevertheless...