Curtain

My days begin earlier now. When a spoon of sugar in the cup sets forth a spray of a million tiny particles which light up the near-horizontal rays of the early sun. The air is coloured with all that has not been said. It grows, until it becomes a cocoon. Its origins are ambiguous and any attempt at objectivity just fails as causes and effects reverse roles, piling on top of one another. It needs the spoken word, incomplete as it may be.

Before one task reaches completion, the next one is already set in motion, whether in the mind or otherwise. The day brings with it a long list of tasks and this is the only way.

When the day ends, the first beads of sweat pour down the forehead. Summer has been waiting for April.

Then the moment arrives, when everything else is forgotten and one loses oneself. Moments like these sneaked into corners of each passing day add up very well. The song plays. It is old, not one I had heard before but one I had always known. A moment of spontaneous recognition.