Clocks

Every once in a while we play a little memory tape in the frail light of our minds.. There isn't much we know that hasn't already been. Never much we crave that we haven't already lost. Living is a real raw flesh and blood thing shimmering and pulsing in the corridors of Time. And Dying a blind brainless walk backwards into Life. Maybe I am a remembrance in some mind. Or a pale and flickering little trick of the light– there, but not quite. And never something to look for.

If only I could turn around before its too late to set things right.

Not old enough to be crazed by clocks. Yet.

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Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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