Winters could be blamed. Yes, why not?

The past few days especially had been rather gloomy; and it seemed all that gloominess had descended on him like a mesh; slowly and carefully; so slowly that he couldn’t even notice it until it had come down and enmeshed him completely. It was not sad per se. Nor was he; just dull. And grey. As if suddenly all the colours had given up on him and decided to desert him. Winters could be blamed for it. Yes, why not? 

The feeling was rather strange—gloomy, but not sad; colourless but not unhappy. Strange indeed. He did not feel discontented. Quite the opposite, in fact. There had been no longings  of any manner for quite a while now. The organ of pining had just gone silent. Why? He did not know. Nor did he complain. (Good riddance!) Maybe it was the loom of the Amrit’s presence that hung somewhere in the distant horizon. It was so vague. Nothing could be said about it. Was it even there (they would exchange, mostly obligatory, messages once every two days)? Yet it was strangely reassuring; at least for the time being. Winters could be blamed for it. Yes, why not?

He had become rooted; as though the mind had found an anchor. To what it had latched itself was hard to say. To no other soul, positively. (And thankfully.)

Distant too. He had become distant too. From what? Almost everything.

Everything had suddenly receded into a faint and distant backdrop. The passions and emotions that would eddy in his head every now and then; the loneliness that would bite him; those sudden throes of vanity that would arrest him often; friends; their business; their lives—everything ; almost everything  had suddenly felt so distant and still (or frozen perhaps?). Everything seemed like some obscure buzzing sound coming from afar.  Winters could be blamed for it. Yes, why not?

There was one desire though. He wished he could break out of this sac called himself; and then experience what it feels like to be someone else; to have features that others have; to have lives they live; to have perspectives they have; to be amiable for a change maybe. 

Oh, yes, he also wanted to have long, runny hair like that of the guy whose profile he had visited on Facebook today. He wished that the cocoon be broken. He wished he come out of it; flap the wings (bright and colourful ones, with magical patterns on them); show them off; spread them. And just fly. Wherever. Somewhere. Nowhere.

Why could not Raag Vasant be lived instead of being sung?

How brazen the sky was! What else could this untimely thunder and shower mean? Cheeky!

Winters could be blamed for it. Yes, why not?