We are the mashup of all the things we let into our life.

We are the mashup of all the things we let into our life.
The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more ---William Wordsworth

Sunday, 21 October 2012

Routing my Synapses

The storm was a screeching duet with the approaching prowl car sirens. I leaned over the parapet of the rooftop and discerned in the blinding snow the sea of revolving red and blue lights. The final gunshot was an exclamation mark to everything that had led to this point, i released my hand from the trigger, and then it was over.
 Every story has a turning point, the climax before the credits roll. And that's where the fun starts. Pulling the trigger is a binary choice, you either pull it or you die. The light, when it came, was blinding. Blinding as snow. I leaped at the crouched figure and felt myself falling down. Down into the shadows of my past. Echoes, memories, time, all flashed by. To wake up was to die...indefinitely.


In the backseat of the moving car, i am cut loose from the city, as it watches me pass with neon eyes. The night has turned the skyscrapers into silver hands groping into the sky, and every brick-wall covered with graffiti are like a thousand menacing eyes watching my every move. Its funny how everything, living and non- living, seems to cower in its shell when you are forced to step into the darkness of your own pain. The life outside seems to be dead-still. The trees stand lifeless with their arms folded, the myriad of eyes cast a furtive glance at you and then crawl back into their homes. Life is cruel, i thought, but then every rose has its thorns.

The car stops in the traffic lights. Outside, the light paints snow red, like the whole city was in flames. But inside, the shadows of the car, its all done in blues. I know i'm lying to myself, no amount of medicine can keep this ache away. No lie can hide it. I'm not really in the backseat of this car, and i haven't left my room since. The killer dead at my feet on the ground.

Especially now as the city presses close the windows the car, it's monstrous heartbeat under the tires. My squinted eyes in the rear-view mirror. My hands numb and held awkwardly behind my back, everything that happened next was a kaleidoscopic, chaotic swirl, rising nausea that tastes like rust in my mouth.

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