An Evening It Was
I am lying on my bed; I don't know how long it has been maybe an hour maybe just 10 mins. The ceiling is white, plain, dull, it has no border designs, unlike back at my parents’ house, the one I left. It’s just plane, square with a fan a little left from the centre, probably those who lived before me had their bed right below it. There is a hook in centre, where the fan was actually supposed to be, maybe it was for light bulb, who knows. Things fit in as one wishes, not the other way around. I have watched this countless time and thought same things. The fan is old and has dust settled on it, it hasn't been clean for last few months, nor been used much for last few weeks. There are also some spider webs, but no spider at sight, they left their home too. I hope they reached a good place, maybe they died on the way, or maybe they are alive at some better place than this hobbit's habitat. There is a big crack on the right wall, I have followed its path so many times, it looks like lighting, parting the sky but the walls are yellow not blue or grey, the crack is dark, not shining at all. The crack makes its way to the window, opening up this box to the world, acting as a portal with white translucent curtains. Every morning the sun seeps in through them waking me up, some days burning my soul, some days healing my bones. The window is the only source of light in the room right now, it looks like sun will set sooner or later, the sky is in a fresh coat of purple hue with clouds orange, white and blue, in contrast to which the room is a muddy brownish blue. The clouds are slowly floating away to some far lands, they will lose their existence in form of rain soon, making some land feel alive again. Time is floating away too with the clouds; I wonder who was the first person who started calculating it. Why did they do so? What must have been so important for them to start quantization of time out of all things, trying to conquer something so unknown. It flows different for different things; how did they manage to make it acceptable to everyone? Within each breath I take, thousands or millions or more microbes must have been born and die let alone on my body, and then all on other humans’ body or that lake or the forests and literally every place, their flow of time is different than me. The clouds have passed the sky has been abandoned too, it’s now getting darker, a familiar shade of blue. The room is getting darker, the yellow walls look muted into an unknown shade. The sun has set, left this side of earth to become still, calm, cold. There are yellow lights switching on, in houses outside of my room, windows lit, showing signs of existence one by one, forming a constellation on surface, while the sky turns darker, there are people alive and warm, people I don't know. There are no stars in the sky today, but the grey clouds hoarding around, it will rain, at least. There are crickets and insects who started chirping outside, toads and frogs are making a tune. Birds of night are playing in the sky, or maybe finding a shelter from the upcoming rain. Its dark outside, and so my room is now purely blue, with silhouettes of furniture, its growing colder. There is a distant noise of car honks and music, maybe someone is celebrating their joy. Its raining, the voices are dying, all I can hear is the rain getting louder and louder. The world is silent, the sky is crying. My hands are blue, my heart is quiet, my breath is contained. The world has grown colder and I am cold with it too. So much time has passed. All I know is I am still lying on my bed.
