Saturday, November 17, 2007

















Supporting herself against feeble palms pressed down on coarse pebbles, Em quitely listened to the hint of breeze in the branches. Now that all the voices in her head were numbed by the early winter chill, she was quite alone. I wanted to know whether she was thinking about her sixpence spool of coloured yarn or whether she was afraid now that the heavens had splattered ink all over it's floor. But if you could see her then, reclining back on improbabilities, teaching herself half-truths and lies...you wouldnt. Instead you would just say-" Isnt that Orion? I think it never looked better than it looks at 3.15 in the morning..."

2 comments:

Noisy Autist said...

Amazingly vivid.
Improbabilities resulting in lighter suppression?

misa said...

suppression...why yes, thats the word. but lighter? no.