Questions and Answers

But of course some questions do not have any answer is all that I manage to convince myself. Finally. No, convince will be incorrect to use. Argue would be better. It shocks me every time I realize that questions and spring are independent of each other. The temporal similitude of origin disturbs me. The co-incidental complement between the two seems extremely vexing. May be its only my unimaginative nature that refuses to accept any impediment to the linear flow of sense.

Or may be, I’ll say, I imagine too much. That is what makes reality all the more incoherent and illegible. Images simply swim inside my cerebrum. Sounds flutter and then fade away. All what remains is a set of questions that seems to have no answer. Bloody shimuls rain over my shoulders while the answers that never were lulls me dead.

It’s weird to die everyday.
It really is.

I have a fetish for communication. For touching finger-tips instead of kisses. For phone calls instead of Bournvilles. It might make me odd… but one can hardly deny one’s dislikes. And likes, of course. Communication leads to lesser questions. Better answers. And bonding. The attachment that I am always deprived of.

Am I complaining?
Do I know what satisfies my queer needs?
Am I still the child that Mom tries to spot in me every time I get out of control?
Can unconditional love exist but for in myths?
How long will I be able to persist with this search?

Questions never fetch me any answers. Instead, they take me to mellow winter afternoons of orange dust and dreamy smokes. Of the telebhaja breeze. Of the chill making my nostrils arid. Of the golden light trickling down my ruffled hair. Of gutters blocked with empty Pepsi cans. Of the cozy constriction of the Cornfield Road. Of ripened suns and neon lights.

I no longer feel too tempted to stop seeking answers. I dig into myself. Into others. I go on trying… and trying… and trying…

I’m a creepy creature, eh?