because there is no blueprint for this...

I wake up to a persistent tinkling of Imagine Dragon’s Radioactive, my ring tone of the moment. 

The room is a tableau of various shades of cold evening grey.

And even through the smoky grey envelope I could see things that are out of place, as if cutting through the sleepy haze… like tunnel vision clarity in sharp focus all things that no longer fit.

I was bone cold when I went to take a bit of a break, and no amount of comforters and wool or chocolate and whiskey could warm the being up… as if the cold is more within than out.

Amidst fragmented sleep, tattered thoughts, splitting migraine and fractured images … sleep did come, slowly anesthetizing. And, now I can’t move more because of the reluctance to let go of the delicious cozy warmth (finally!) and also because somehow I can’t. Glued!

It feels like a break from prolonged fever. It feels like when you've been holding your corner of the world together a la’ the Atlas. The cup you did not let slip. Gently. Firmly. But, yes your heart traveled miles and times and you have wanted so much to just pack and back out but knowing all the same, this too has purpose.

All those moments stacked up, all those turns fitting into a jigsaw of you – this version of you, now and here!
It feels like ending. Not just of year, things mundane. But also of life as you know. You. On this cusp of unknown! Something is about to happen. An air of expectancy surrounds the season

On my way to pick up Nirvaan, I see a flock of pigeons take off from the terrace yonder in co-ordinated choreography. Their flightpath a zig-zag. The light is fading the inky grey makes them look like some sort of shadow show.

Like the birds, I’m treading the line between. Between stasis and flux, between now and what will come next, between here, and wherever there is. There: the future. Tomorrow. The next day.

The world around me is counting down the days until Christmas. I too am counting the days. But I can’t say for what. For certainty. The past few months have felt a lot like sleepwalking through every day.

We get back home. Get our pet lovebirds inside. Make his chocolate milk and my tea together.

And then light up the customary incense, the warm sandal wood scent wafting in its wake and Nirvaan trailing behind me chanting his very own rhyme of “Om Bhurbhuwah….”

Copyright © Neerja Yadav